


Ruby Eyes

by MPAWssible



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Manipulation, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence, maternal death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MPAWssible/pseuds/MPAWssible
Summary: You do not know whether your visions are a blessing or a curse. You just know you have had them from the womb, and they only occur when you're asleep. When your dreams start to become increasingly more violent, you realize that the life your father, the leader of a hidden vampire coven, has planned is more nefarious than you could have ever imagined. It's up to you to stop him by any means possible, and in doing so you discover a world so different than your own.Reader is half-vampire/half-human. Eventual Paul Lahote/Reader pairing.
Relationships: Original Male Character(s)/You, Paul Lahote/Original Character(s), Paul Lahote/Original Female Character(s), Paul Lahote/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	1. Inside Your Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context: You are a half-vampire, half-human born within a secret vampire coven buried deep in an Oregon forest. You are not Renesmee, but she will play a part later in the story. While this is a second person/reader insert fic, you will have a distinct personality and a lengthy backstory. I try to keep your physical description vague, and I do not say your name, but other than that I hope you will forgive the decisions I have made regarding personality/history. '
> 
> Female (she/her/hers) reader for the sake of pronouns and eventual intimacy scenes.
> 
> Canon will be mostly the same except for a few distinct changes. I will be making an author’s note when those occur. Characters will interact with canon-characters but will not change the story’s plot unless noted. Takes place during Breaking Dawn.
> 
> Rated Mature for violence and adult themes. There may be some Explicit chapters in the future. 
> 
> Slow build up to an eventual Paul Lahote/Reader pairing. Do not expect the pairing to come into the story for some time.
> 
> I am not sure how often I will be updating but expect at least weekly. As of this author’s note, I already have six chapters written and approved through my beta. Chapters will be posted solely on AO3 due to 2nd person restrictions on ff.net. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable stories and scenarios belong to Stephanie Meyer. There are many original characters in this story, however.

**_Ruby Eyes_ **  
By Impossible_Muse  
Beta Reader: Slow_Lorax

**Chapter One: Inside Your Dreams**

_Inside Your Dreams_

Terror. You feel a shiver in your spine. It climbs, vertebrae by vertebrae until it enters the core of a rib and snakes its way towards your heart. Your breath hitches - a sharp, bitter inhale. You feel its icy claw enter your chest, the fear gripping your aortic valve with increasing intensity. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beatbeatbeat.

_What is this place?_

There is light all around you. A thousand crystals glimmer, reflecting off the glassy surfaces of the square. You realize you are standing in the middle of a city-block, though it is not one you recognize. Not that you would easily recall any. You have not traveled far from your home and these dreams never write their location in big, white letters as if they are a movie and you are the viewer.

Crimson overtakes you. It screams for attention. You see it in the square, on the buildings, coming further and further into focus until it fills your vision, not quite showing what it is attached to. Not yet. That was the hardest part of these dreams. They always take a moment to unfold, to reveal their secrets so to speak. A metallic smell creeps into your mind next. It is almost sweet, and your stomach lurches as you realize what lays before you. The smell slams into you and connects, with a sharp lurch in your gut, to the scene on the ground.

There is blood everywhere. Pooling at your feet. Stained on your hands. Drying in the cases of the victims long-gone, gushing for the ones taken more recently. The bodies are everywhere – humans. For a second you lose yourself to a sense of thirst, your throat burning as the thick scent coats your nostrils with its alluring pull.

_This isn’t right._

Beatbeatbeat. Your frantic heart pulls you back into reality and you remember the vow you took many years ago. You had no desire to act on your baser urges. You had no wish to drink the blood from those who made up half of your DNA.

They are still screaming, the humans. Terror etches on their faces just as it pierced your heart. Your other brethren, the blood drinkers, make their way through the crowd hungrily. They steal from every screaming body, every feebly moving hand or sobbing person. Those who try to run are quickly overtaken, added to the pile of bodies in the center of the square. People ripped from their offices or cars or even the food stand on the corner of the street. There was even some lying dead next to their barking dogs, who were ignored, of course, for their companions.

The vampires are not robed and the sun shines on their skin indiscriminately. They are no longer hiding. They are fully revealed as they feed in the square. There are no secrets here.

You fall to your knees, hopeless, afraid, still. You wait for the end, the reason why you were brought here tonight. It does not take long for the true horror to unfold. In the center of the square stands a lone figure. He watches the carnage with a wide smile, his hands in the air as if in worship. Ruby eyes are clear despite his ever-shimmering skin. Victory, they whisper.

Your father.

_This is the end._

You scream until you can no longer draw air into your lungs, and your vision goes black.


	2. Ruby Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving kudos for the first chapter, that really means a lot! I hope this meets any expectations you have formed after reading that teaser. I just wanted to throw a quick shoutout to my lovely beta reader, Slow_Lorax, for all her hard work on this chapter! I don't know what I would do without you. <3
> 
> I decided to post this chapter early since I have a lot of chapters written already and the first chapter was merely a teaser. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This chapter is rated Mature for violence. 
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable stories and scenarios belong to Stephanie Meyer. There are many original characters in this story, however.

**Chapter Two: Ruby Eyes**

You wake with a jolt, your mouth wide but the scream from the dream quickly choking into great, racking sobs. They overtake your entire body as you shake the vision from your senses. You can still taste the blood, sharper than ever. Those eyes hit you again and again. You loathe them, more than one could loathe any. They have haunted every single one of your seventeen years, ever since they tore you from the dark.

  
~

  
You remember that day perfectly, though most do not remember the day they were born. You were so happy with your mother. Though you never saw her face, you knew as soon as the thoughts began to form that you loved her. That gentle voice, that sang to you in your sleep and filled you with warmth. You only had four short weeks together, as you sprouted quickly within her womb. There were other voices during that time, but most were harsh, dismissive. A growling grunt, a sinister twinkle, or the deep velvet of the one who you would later learn to be your father. There was no care or consideration in your growth, only impatience.

  
Yet your mother still sang to you, at night when they finally left her side so she could sleep. You let the music drift you into dreams, only flashes at that time. The ruby eyes the most prominent, but also a cold floor, a bottle of red liquid, a sea of curious, pale faces looking up at you. You did not understand at the time, you just assumed that all who were growing had dreams such as these. You cherished the dreams, hopeful for the future soon to come. Most of all, you hoped for your mother. You wanted to know her beyond that sweet voice, to watch her as she sang you to sleep. It was your greatest wish.

  
But the ruby eyes were cold when they pulled you from her. You had grown too large for the tiny space. You were suffocating and as the walls began to close in, you felt your limbs thrashing involuntarily. You did not want to leave your haven, not yet, but it was now your time. You tried to control each limb, but you were not strong enough, and you were so painfully hungry. You had barely been fed, just enough for your mother’s to stay alive but not enough to ease your thirst. Her voice was no longer singing. There was fear within her screams as you thrashed harder and harder, until you began to tear the walls that pushed against you. The velvet voice was drawing nearer and nearer to the encasement that carried you. You recoiled as it came closer. A sharp object was drawn across the wall. Unceremoniously, you were cut you from your mother and pulled urgently from her body.

  
“Change me!” Her voice was hoarse as she spoke to the ruby eyes. “Quickly!”

  
Your father only smiled as he looked at you with mild interest.

  
You felt a shift as he laid you on the cold floor, for a moment uncaring of what became of you. “Please,” She had spoken again, her voice only a whisper. You could still hear her, but you could not see her face from your spot on the stone. The velvety voice spoke with a reassuring tone as he bent towards her neck. You did not see what they were doing, and only heard her meek whimpers for a moment, until the air stilled. In the minutes after there was only silence.

  
His arms encircled you again and wrapped your naked form in a rough cloth as he carried you from the room. You were only afforded a single glance at the woman who had, only moments before, whispered her desperate pleas. She was completely still. Hair still damp from labor. Face pale. Eyes glazed. Gone.

  
You looked up at the ruby eyes as they bore into your own. That wide smile dripping blood.

  
~

  
“What is it, sweet?” A soft voice breaks through the memory as you continue to sob, lost to the ruby eyes and memories of your murdered mother. You look up to see the dark red eyes of an ancient vampire, perched gently on your bed. A woman turned past her youth. Calia.

  
She was tasked with caring for you after your birth. There were very few you loved in the miserable walls of your home. Calia, whose soft voice whispered to you in your sleep, was one of them. You do not answer at first, still lost in the harsh memory. The old vampire merely sighs, and pulls you in for a gentle, but firm embrace. You feel yourself soften in her arms and the room finally comes into focus. It is dimly lit, but your unmistakably human eyes are not bothered. There are no pictures on the stone walls, just the unforgiving expanse of gray stone. You are allowed a small bed to sleep, stiff but yielding enough for your form. It is better than the stone floor you were once so carelessly laid upon.

  
On your bedside table, dark wood, is a goblet of blood. Animal blood, you know, as this was your main request from the moment you could define your needs for yourself. Your father has not spoiled you, but he gave into this one demand, at least. You grab it carefully, drinking the liquid quickly and relishing its slightly murky taste. It is not nearly as satisfying as human blood, but you are thankful for nourishment regardless. Your father sometimes lets you hunt in the forests that surrounded your home. Always with Calia and another guard. Never alone. You enjoyed the chase, even if you sometimes wished you did not have to rely solely on blood.

  
Once the goblet was empty and returned to the table, its glass interior stained red, you take Calia’s hands and looked reassuringly into her dark eyes.

  
“A vision,” You explain, your voice merely a whisper as you try to avoid the ears of the guard outside your door. “A… dark one this time.” Calia nods, her eyes full of understanding. Her hands release you and she reaches for the small, leather-bound journal that rests on the nightstand next to the empty goblet. You shake your head and whisper again.

  
“No, the other one, Cal.” In a flash she replaces the journal on your nightstand and kneels against a loose floorboard, hidden in the corner behind a large armoire. Another notebook is nestled beneath it, and she brings it to you quietly. You grab the pen stuck onto its cover and open it to the first blank page. You begin to write everything you saw. The images dance before your eyes again. The screams, the glimmer of sun upon pale skin, the putrid smell of blood, those ruby eyes. You finish quickly and stash the journal back into its hiding spot before the ink has finished drying. Your hands find its leather-bound companion on your nightstand and you write something else. A vision you had before, one not merely as sinister.

  
~

  
Your hands clutch a wooden wolf. A small carving, but beautiful, nonetheless. You turn the object in your hands again and again. There is blood on your hands, but you do not seem to care. You feel a sense of belonging. Joy. You see nothing else.

  
~

  
You had had this vision many times, not knowing what it meant, but always repeating. It was a choice yet unknown, and your father always laughed it off, believing that the wolf belonged, perhaps, to a human victim that you finally chose to feed from. The blood merely confirms this theory for him. He believes it to be a lure. You would finally accept your true purpose. Destruction. You privately disagreed with the assessment but kept up the charade to protect yourself. The hope that you would change your ways kept your father off your back, most days. He believed he could convince you if he were patient enough. You were still young, only full grown for ten years now. There was all the time in the world to change.

  
You told nobody of your true visions. Calia knew of the notebook, but you never allowed her to read what you wrote. You did not want her to be connected to the dreams if your father found out. His wrath would be immeasurable. It was better for Calia to remain ignorant of their contents, and she never pressed you to share.

  
“Can you sleep, again?” she asks you gently. Her hand reaches out to stroke your hair, and you close your eyes at the touch. You could at least pretend to sleep, as you often did when your dreams were particularly violent. Calia would allow that.

  
“Okay.” You whisper, louder now. Let the guard outside your door relax. You lean forward and kiss your companion’s wrinkled cheek. She smiles lightly and moves back to her chair in the corner without much fanfare, picking up the knitting that kept her occupied while you slumbered. You crawl back beneath the covers, closing your eyes and hoping that sleep eventually sweeps you back into its care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of the chapter length and pace of the story. Chapters are currently around 1500 words but if that seems too short, let me know and I will see if I can flesh them out moving forward.


	3. Orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Slow_Lorax as always.
> 
> I've decided to start posting chapters twice a week, so keep an eye out Sundays & Wednesday or Thursday :)
> 
> This is a relatively short chapter - most are much longer! :)

**Chapter Three: Orders**

“You dreamed again last night?” your father asks you without greetings. You woke up in a haze of sweat and tangled sheets. It took an hour to drift off to sleep after your exchange with Calia, and you slept later than intended. Your father ordered your guard to escort you to the council room upon your rising. Sleep still clung to the corners of your eyes, but you followed the guard without question.

  
“Yes, sir.” Your voice still eludes you, so the words come out very quietly. Not that it truly matters; his ears could pick up even the smallest utterance. He gives you a wide smile, and gestures for the guard to bring you closer. The guard is not overly gentle, but you can handle the rough pull of his hand around your arm.

  
“Tell me.” Your father stares at you as you kneel at his feet. Always demanding worship, even from his own kin. This time, your voice finds itself easily.

  
“The blood again, sir. With the wolf. I don’t know what it means,” You answer his question before he has a chance to ask. These interviews are always the same, and he seems to accept your response without question. You do not dare meet his eyes. It is too early in your day to feel that lurch of loathing in your gut.

  
His laugh bounces across the chamber as he considers your vision. It is always the same. You continue to bore a hole into the floor at his feet with your eyes, waiting for him to finish enjoying the moment. You mouth his words as he continues.

  
“Perhaps we should find you someone to drink.” More laughter, and the guards echo his sentiments. Sometimes you think that you converting to their diet is his greatest wish. That would be easier to accept than his true motivations. To conquer. You shudder, trying to wipe your earlier vision from your memories. It did not help to dwell on those crimson streets. Not now.

  
There is a shift in the air. A change from the usual lull of conversation. You find your muscles tensing with the anxiety of this new development. There is a pregnant pause as the hair prickles on the back of your neck. Before you can spring from your position at his feet, you feel a cold finger tucking itself under your chin. Your father pulls you up and forces you to look into those cold, ruby eyes. There is something new in them, something you have never seen. It is not the hope to conquer, or even the desire to convince. It is something else entirely.

  
“Or, maybe…” he begins, his stare intentional and calculating, “We find you a companion, instead.” You feel your jaw drop in shock for just a second. Although you have been fully grown for nearly ten years now, this suggestion has never crossed his lips before. You quickly take a large gulp of air and shut your mouth resolutely. He did not notice your change in expression, too lost in thought.

  
“It is past time, truly. You are old enough to bear a child. If I could just find somebody suitable… we can move onto the next phase in our plan…” He is talking to himself, really. You had not seen this decision. You shudder in anticipation of who he might pick. Maybe you could change his mind if you played it right…?

  
“I… I don’t think that’s necessary.” Your voice is a mere whimper, the fear evident as your body shakes. The wide smile returns. You silently curse to yourself. Of course, there would be no convincing. Once his mind is made, your father rarely decides something else.

  
“Ah, but you do not get to decide what is necessary, my dear.” He licks his lips, clearly pleased with this new development. “We will find you a companion, and you will bear a child. Even if I have to hold you down myself.” The threat pierces through you like a hot knife. This is no joke. You realize with a gasp of horror that this must have been his plan since the beginning. But… how did you miss this? If the decision had been made, why had you not seen it in your dreams? Clearly there must be something you could do to prevent it if it alludes your vision. The dreams were not foolproof, they could be changed if you chose to act. Perhaps there was another choice ahead.

  
You realize it is best not to argue the point, but you cannot stop the sting of tears threatening the corners of your eyes. They continue to build, until one, then two, then three and four boil over and began a familiar pattern down your cheeks. You look away from him, too ashamed to acknowledge your terror. You know he is still smiling, but you do not dare confirm that thought by meeting his gaze again.

  
“Take her to her room,” He orders, the deep velvet of his voice returning as your guard grabs your arm once more. You shake him off harshly and begin a frantic pace towards the door. You do not quite make it out the room without hearing his next order, “Summon every unspoken for man. We will start interviews immediately.”

  
You sweep from the chamber and begin to run full pace back to your quarters. Your feet are a blur as you carry yourself through the dusty halls, tears still streaming. Once safely inside the small room, you throw yourself onto your bed with a loud thud. So, you were to be a lamb, to be bought and sold and bred. You cry until sleep presses itself into your eyes again.


	4. Butterflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has bookmarked, left a comment, or given kudos to this story so far! I'm having an absolute blast writing this, and I hope you are enjoying it. 
> 
> This chapter is rated M for sexual suggestion, but there is nothing explicit. If you want to skip this part, you can move on to paragraph 3. There is very minor violence, but it is not graphic. There is lots of backstory in this chapter, so I wouldn't suggest skipping it completely if you want to understand the character's history.
> 
> As always, much appreciation to my beta writer, Slow_Lorax, for her diligent review. My tenses wouldn't be the same without you. <3

**Chapter Four: Butterflies**

  
_Inside Your Dreams_

  
It is as if butterflies land upon your ribs. There's light movement on your sides as fingers trace a pattern so delicate, you almost feel as if you are imagining its persistent crawl. You are unsure whose hands are dancing along your skin, but the sensation is pleasant. You close your eyes for a moment, reveling in the feeling until you realize that someone is pressing a soft kiss onto your neck. Almost as soft as their quiet fingers. Teasing, perhaps. You lean into them and realize with a shock that they are warm… hot, even. Not at all like the icy skin of the vampires who generally surround you. This person is warmer than even you. You have always run a little hot despite being half immortal.

  
You try for a moment to get your bearings but are distracted as the kiss on your neck becomes more urgent. The fingers stop their relentless hints, and grab more evenly across your stomach, pulling you even closer towards their warm body. You feel something hard at your tailbone and realize that your companion is unashamedly male. They hold you for a moment, their hot breath gentle in your ear, until suddenly they are flipping you onto your back and you are finally able to catch a glimpse of their eyes. Black, as if they are unfed, but unmistakably human. You wake just as they lean towards your lips…

  
Your own eyes flare open, and you stare at the ceiling in a moment of anger. Was this a vision? Or merely a dream—wishful thinking, perhaps for something unknown? You had never considered a moment so vulnerable before, distracted as you were with the violent visions and demands of your father. You do not feel well rested, so you likely had only been asleep for a short period of time. It had felt so real, like any other dream before. So maybe it was not merely a wish. But you could never feel sure, and if time had not proven your sight again and again you would think nothing of the images.

  
This is not what—or, more accurately, who—your father had in mind when he ordered you a companion in his council room just hours before. Surely the partner he chose would be a vampire. There are many eligible men within the coven. Your father has been collecting his citizens for centuries, you’re told. Never enough people to cause notice from any of the surrounding towns. Generally stragglers, or criminals, or even lost souls. He is indiscriminate in who he chooses to convert and who he chooses to feed to his citizens. The coven has grown large, although it remains hidden among the hallowed chambers of a forgotten mountain deep in the forests of Oregon. Only kill the easily forgotten, was the decree. Never attract notice. His people travel across the coast and even up into Canada to hide their presence from the world. It’s always the same, they would carry their victims back to the mountain before or after feeding and burn them within its halls. Never leave behind any trace of your presence.

  
You know very little of the vampires outside your home. Your father rarely shares his knowledge with you, so you only know of the whispers. T _he Volturi rule the rest of the world, but we rule ourselves_ , Calia whispered once while on a hunt. It quickly became too dangerous to ask any further questions. The guard was always too near and heard far too well. You tried to get information when you could, but she never told you much. Calia had the confidence of many coven citizens and asked many questions about the Volturi during her time in the mountain. Your father hates them, that much is clear, but how your coven eludes their rule is a mystery still. You often wonder if they do not know of your coven at all, though it has been around for centuries. Something hides the mountain from their gaze. If they were as powerful as Calia assured, they would have reigned your father in by now.

  
You have never liked any of the men your father chose to convert. They were often as cruel as him, carrying their victims to the mountain alive, only to torture them once they were safely in the stone halls. Some bodies would always be on display, though they were long gone. It was as if modern advancements eschew themselves here, so many practices were still very medieval. Calia taught you the histories during your youth. Society has advanced today, but your father came from a time long ago. You do not have access to technology. Even the lights on your walls are lit with flame and not electric bulbs. Dangerous, considering how flammable your immortal brethren are.

  
Calia taught you of cities and states. You know the name of your home, and the settlements nearby, though you’ve never ventured further than the forest. Portland, Salem, Eugene, and more. The coven lives in a national park, in an area too remote for a human to travel. In a way you are thankful for that. You do not have to tempt your resolution to avoid human blood by coming in close contact with one. There were always the victims, delivered from far away, but you kept yourself locked in your room whenever they were brought into the mountain alive. Calia was supposed to be a victim. You’ve grown to understand that over time. She was brought to your home when you were a child, snatched from her bed in a failing retirement home. She had no family, and the staff was too distracted to pay much attention to her disappearance. There were plenty of forests near the home; they probably thought it likely she had wandered off and been eaten by a bear. It was one less mouth to feed and the home quickly moved on. She was chosen carefully and stolen deep in the night.

  
Your elderly friend immigrated to the United States from Italy as a small child and was raised in Eugene. She often tells you stories of the large hills, not quite as large as the mountains around you, but still enough to make the average human huff and puff as they traversed across the quiet suburbs from home to school. Her parents never bore any other children, and she busied herself as an adult in her job at a daycare, and never settled down herself. There is no woman more patient or gentle than Calia. Your father recognized this spirit when she was brought into your home, fearful but determined to not be lunch. You were being announced that day, a sea of pale faces looked up at you as your father introduced you to the crowd. His biological child, your mother dead from the labor, to be carefully guarded and raised.

  
“Let me help you!” Calia had pleaded, “I am good with the young.” The vampire who had snatched her had grabbed another victim: an old man from across the ward. Calia knew him well enough, but in the moment only thought of her own self-preservation. Though it was not usual to turn the elderly, your father took pity on her and changed her himself. The old man was quickly killed instead. He screamed her name as he died, but she shook it off in the moment. His voice still haunted her to this day, she had once explained.

  
The transformation was excruciating, and she felt as if she may not survive. It took three days to fully complete, and even as a newborn she would never be as strong as the rest of the coven, but she was alive. That was enough. As soon as she was done changing, and was given the blood of another victim, she was ushered into your room. Your father tasked her with the job of taking care of your every need, and she had been with you ever since. You were thankful for her soothing spirit, and her patience as she taught you about the world. Your father was more interested in the dream visions that you revealed early in your childhood, and less on your education. If it were not for Calia, you would be completely ignorant.

  
You think of the men again. Christopher, a sailor who washed up on the shore and presumed drowned. Kind enough, and not cruel, but always keeps his distance from you out of respect for your father. Daniel. A terrible man and a former addict turned dealer who played dirty on the streets. He often plays with his food before feeding. Boris. A large vampire gifted in pain. He could touch someone and cause them to feel as if a thousand tiny knives were piercing their skin, but only when he willed it. You learned about this gift the hard way. He grabbed you after you attempted to defy your father, once, and then again, every time after you gave a hint of disobedience. Your father loved to keep him around. There are more, but you try not to think about it as you continue to stare at the ceiling, still awash in the memory of the dream.

  
This fiery hot human man, a human or perhaps something else entirely, does not live within the mountain halls. He is not the mate your father intended. How did he creep into this dream? Where does he live? Is this the choice yet unknown? Your curiosity seizes you for an hour more, until you feel a familiar thirst at your throat. The small goblet of blood you drank the night before was only enough to temporarily quench your appetite. You needed to hunt today, if you were going to have the strength to formulate a plan.

  
You pull yourself from bed with a little hesitation and attract Calia’s attention at once.

  
“I want to hunt,” you explain with a murmur. She nods and knocks at the door to speak to the guard. They speak quickly and quieter than even you can hear. The old woman turns back to you and winks, her red eyes filled with warmth.

  
“Let us go, my sweet. Your guard will follow.”


	5. A Wolf Separate From It's Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to warn about in this chapter. Mention of blood, but this is a vampire story, so if that bothers you I would suggest reading something else. This chapter is mostly angst.
> 
> I am overwhelmed by the amount of love y'all have passed my way this week. Thank you for being so kind. I hope this story continues to live up to your expectations and I'm excited to share more!
> 
> Thanks again to my amazing, brilliant Beta Reader, Slow_Lorax, for their review of this chapter!

**Chapter Five: A Wolf Separate From It's Pack**

  
It’s a crisp day for being the middle of summer. A cloud bank must have rolled in, for the forest outside your mountain is covered in a thick fog. For a human, it might be difficult to see. However, the wall of gray does not affect you as you move carefully from a set of hidden doors, carved very carefully into the mountain. It was a tradition from another time, hide something in plain sight. A normal human would look at this door and see only a large, jagged rock. Vampires would not be fooled, of course, but nobody ever ventures into this part of the woods except your coven.

  
You do not pause to look; this path is familiar to you and Calia. You do not hunt every day, often too busy with transcribing your visions or sitting through another boring meeting with your father and the council, but you follow this path often enough. You do not fully understand why he allows you to some council meetings but not others. I limit you for your own good, he has always explained when you inquired why you could not be a fully-fledged member of the council. You are his biological child, after all, even if he had murdered your mother. He still accepts you as that much. Yet, you are still treated with inferiority to the other vampires. Those who are not of his body are treated with more respect and love than you could ever dare to be. Ah, no, that is not right. Your father does not love anyone, but at least he listens when they speak. His ruby eyes are only kind towards yours when he wants something from you, and he never lets you speak for long.

  
Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to have a human life. If your father did not glare crimson, and your mother was not slaughtered the moment you entered the earth. Would your father even be around? Unlikely. You know nothing of how your parents met, nor how they had gotten to the point where mother, a human, had born the child of a vampire. You do not even know her name, the words having been hidden from you from infancy. You loathe your father for this too. Did she have family? Where did she come from? Why was she chosen, out of all humanity, to bear the seed of a vampire?

  
You try to imagine growing up somewhere else, anywhere else besides this godforsaken mountain deep in the forest. Would your mother sing you to sleep in your cradle as she had when you were in her womb? Her voice was beautiful, that much you remember. She must have had kind eyes while she was alive. The same color as your own, even in death. You cannot imagine her eyes as anything but kind. You imagine her as everything your father is not. A bright voice— soft, but not hard to hear. Affectionate, she would have rocked you in her arms whenever you cried. Your father does not like to see you cry. It was a sign of weakness, and that would never do for the daughter of the coven’s leader. You are to remain composed in public, always. You’re thankful he did not see your tears today, at the announcement of his new plan. Crying comes so easily for you. Another side-effect of being half human.

  
Try as you might, you cannot envision your father as what he once was. What he must have been long ago. A soul with flesh and blood and mortality. You want to believe that he came straight into this world in his current form. What mother would want to hold someone so vile? You know, rationally, that children do not come into this world inherently evil. Something must have triggered his cruel nature, whether it was his transformation or something he carried with him throughout life. Honestly, you do not want to know. It is easier to not think about who he must have been before this life.

  
You suspect the reason your father holds so much back is because of your human half. Humans are inferior in the world of vampires. Most are just blood to be consumed and bodies to be discarded. Most vampires do not care that they were once mortal too. Who they were had no bearing on who they have become in this new life. Instinct took over the minute that venom settled into their veins.

  
You will never fully understand. You do not deal in absolutes. You are not one hundred percent in any aspect. Though you have most of the same abilities as your immortal kin, and will likely live forever without intervention, you will never be entirely vampire. Your skin still sparkles, but not nearly to the same effect. You could easily write it off as glitter – at least, that is what Calia said when you tried to compare your flesh to hers, a mere glow compared to the blinding gems she reflected in sunlight. A little sunscreen and you would look practically human! You have never seen sunscreen, nor any of the other human things she likes to often recall. For all you know, it’s a cloth you pull in front of the sun. If only vampires could stand that much heat.

  
You will never be human, either. You could not be that lucky. Humanity does not understand what good cards they have been dealt. Though death is always at their door, whether it stands directly in their face, or waits quietly on the side of a faraway path, they are not burdened with the same curse as you. Their throats call out for a rogue kiss, the one that sang to you as much as the memories of your mother. You long to drink from that sweet river always, even if you know it would curse you along with the rest of your kin. You resist that allure every single day.

The thought of blood slams you back to the moment. You must have been running without your own notice. Calia is nearby, though she never joins you in your feast. She prefers the leftover blood from your coven’s victims. Those who have already died, their bodies cast aside with gallons left. It is a compromise, you know, to drink from the recently deceased, but you still cannot bear the thought. Blood flows through your veins as much as theirs, though you are too much of a vampire to be drunk. Or perhaps it is merely that nobody had ever dared try. Halfblood and half-venom. You hold the curse of the half-immortal, both the patron and the meal.

  
The guard is not far behind. Only one. Always one. Though your father often keeps you confined, he does not see the need to give you an excess of defenses. He needs them for his own protection, not yours. Being the leader of a large coven has undoubtedly made him enemies within his own mountain’s halls. If anyone ever dared attack, they could be subdued enough. Perhaps he feels you are no match for even a single guard. He tells you often enough that your humanity makes you weak. Limited for your own good. Doomed for him to choose a mate. For what? To continue this accursed bloodline? To pass on your gift? You are not even sure if you could survive childbirth. Would a child seventy-five percent vampire overtake your fifty? A cold shudder runs through you at the thought. You do not want to know the answer to this equation.

  
You can see something now. No, smell it. A wolf separated from their pack. You scan the forest for the creature and spot it near a faraway tree. Wandering the river. Instinct kicks in, and you nearly fly to its location. You wait behind a tree, watching it bend its snout in the cool water and take a long, satisfying drink. You close your eyes and imagine its taste. Its blood would be sweet down your throat. Blood, throat, wolf. The vision of another wolf crawls into view behind your closed lids. Your hands, covered in blood while you turn that little, wooden wolf over and over. This dream comes fully into your mind’s eye and you realize that the wolf is attached to a leather rope. A bind? You look closer. No, a necklace, perhaps. Were you supposed to put it on? Who had given such a thing to you?

  
You raise your blood-soaked hands tentatively and pull the braided cord over your head. It drops to your chest with a gratifying thud. You take advantage of the vision to smell your hands. The blood is human, but it is not your own. Is it true then, your father’s interpretation of this dream? Are you going to steal the life of another soul? Yet, there is something else. Someone else, that you can hear, for the first time in this vision. A deep voice. A human voice, speaking to you with a gentle air. You strain to hear their words, but the vision starts to slip. You lean forward, listening with every fiber of your being. You hear only one word. Your name.


	6. The Roosevelt Elk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was completely finished and edited, but I realized I needed to add a little more detail so I did one last revision before uploading. Any grammatical errors you see are entirely my own. My beta reader, the wonderful Slow_Lorax, edited everything before I did this revision. I do apologize if anything looks out of place.
> 
> Rated M for violence. There is animal death in this chapter, but it is not nefarious. Just keep that in mind in case that sort of thing bothers you.
> 
> I hope you are enjoying this story so far! If you have any questions about anything, please don't hesitate to let me know. I know I'm throwing a lot of information at you in these early chapters, so hopefully it is not too overwhelming. Thank you! <3

**Chapter Six: The Roosevelt Elk**

Your name rings in your ears. Over and over it repeats. It pounds a fierce rhythm against your eardrums. First in the rich voice of the unknown man, and then in the voice of someone else. Calia. She is at your side and tugging at your arm. You are on the ground, a painful spot behind your left temple. You must have fallen asleep, right here in the forest, while you watched that lone wolf drink. Your name is still trying to paw its way out of your chest, even now reaching in from that vision.

A scream rips its way from your throat, and you slam your hands against your ears. But the sound is not external, it is coming from deep within you. You let go and turn your body, and land on your hands and knees. The scream turns from shrill to wretched, and you realize you are now gagging instead. You are choking on your own name, and it stings your esophagus until you begin to vomit into a nearby brush. Both Calia and your guard avert their eyes, likely disgusted by the sight of you relieving the contents of your stomach.

Calia kneels next to you, her eyes still trained on something in the distance, and moves her hand to your hair to hold it away from the bile coming from your mouth. Hot tears hit your eyes almost as easily as the acid struck your throat, and you know you must look a pathetic. You desperately want to appear strong. You do not want to be the weak half-human your father so often proclaims you to be. You want to be greater than this.

You pull out of your companion’s gentle grasp and jump to your feet. You say nothing as you sprint away from the scene of your weakness. You know the guard is not far behind as you run along the riverbank. The wolf is long gone, scared off undoubtedly by the thud your body made when you fell into the dream. Not that you could have drank it anyway. You did not think you could ever look at a wolf the same after the intensity of that vision.

Sleep has never overtaken you like that before. The illusions have always remained steadfastly in the night. You have never known yourself to be in danger in your waking hours. This was something else, something new. Your father will be far too interested in this development. You curse the presence of the guard. Calia would have kept it a secret, but you know the guard will not. What motivation does he have for hiding your secrets from the coven’s head? He doesn’t look upset or shocked, but you know the function of the guards. They live in your father’s pocket and serve him solely. Reporting this episode will only benefit him, you are sure of it.

You smell something else. There is a stench of fresh blood, as if it is actively pouring from a wound. You spot the creature lying along the side of the river, in the spot where it had last drunk. A roosevelt elk, half dead and unable to lift its head in acknowledgement of your silent approach. It has obviously already been attacked, most likely by the wolf that upset you before. There’s a pull at your heart as you examine the creature. Pity. The wolf already began to devour its large hide. It’s a wonder the beast still lives.

You know its predator cannot be far, but you have no interest in the flesh that is raw to the air. You reach one tentative hand forward, resting it between the Elk’s large, black eyes. It is a magnificent creature, and your heart breaks knowing this would be its end.

“Hush,” you whisper, rubbing its forehead with soothing strokes. “It will be over soon. Hush, now. Don’t be afraid.” You continue to whisper your words of comfort as you lean closer, inch by inch, until your lips hover over its neck. Its breath is shallow now and you know it is almost asleep. You coo for a second and wait for it to close those coal-colored eyes. It drifts away, unconscious, and you sink your teeth in, drinking away the last of its life.

~

You walk back, slowly, the guard behind you, silent but observant. Calia is at your side again and holds your hand without question. You need the comfort more than ever as you rack your mind for a suitable explanation for your sudden collapse. You do not want to tell the truth, let the guard guess.

Your father will ask for the story to be told with your own words, and you know that will be your only chance to hide the truth. If he knew the visions were becoming clearer, he would never let you leave his side except to sleep. It is late now, and you may be able to fend off questions for the night. You are half-human; you do need rest, even if that rest is plagued with this wretched curse.

You do not know whether the dreams are a blessing or an evil spell, cast upon you by some unknown witch. It was only within the past year that they began to hint at things outside the mountain walls. Before, they always had to do with events within the coven. You had caught assassins and often squashed rebellions before they began. You knew the outcome of excursions a month before they were planned. Sometimes they only allowed small glimpses. Things you understood but could not explain.

There is an instinct within you, beyond what you could see in of itself. You can follow trails and determine paths. It is unlike anything your father has ever seen; he had said once. There are rumors of other vampires with similar visions outside your coven, but none quite like what you so often experience.

You do not know from where you claimed this gift. Your father is powerful, but he cannot see the future. You know there is something different about him, something off, but he never lets you close enough to truly understand. It just is not these dreams, that much was clear. He would not rely on you so much if that was the case. You simply know he is peculiar.

That’s the thing about your father: You could never learn what he did not want you to know. Try as you might. You have scoured the mountain’s library in an attempt to find any signs of his past but came up empty. You tried again, and again, but the result was always the same. Nobody could tell you, no matter how many creative ways you asked, who your father is beyond the founder of the coven. This further confirms your theory that he had simply shown up. Once a vampire, always a vampire, never anything else. You do not dare question this to his face.

You are at the doors again, and the guard finds the special notch that swung them open at a hidden hinge. The three of you enter the hall without speaking. Calia’s eyebrows are knit with worry, but she has her face trained to the ground, so it is not easily seen. The guard wears no particular expression on his stone face; he just looks forward in the dim hall. He was young when he was turned, close to your age, and rather easy on the eyes. You notice this passively, but that does not mean you trust him. It would be in his best interest to speak to your father, and you know that even if you don’t like it.

The tunnel leads to an entry chamber, tall as the mountain itself. Sun shines through a small hole at the very top. It is surrounded by vines and rocks. _Beautiful._ You used to crawl up there as a child just so you could look at the forests below. It is gorgeous, you know, but you are not an adolescent anymore and random climbing is no longer tolerated. You miss your childhood freedoms. Things have become so serious since you have become full grown.

You turn suddenly to the guard, stopping him only with your sudden movement. He says your name curiously, his voice gentle, and you take in a deep breath before you begin to speak.

“I am really tired,” you explain quickly, rubbing at your eyes to further the illusion. A small smile threatens the corners of the guard’s lips and you interpret it as amusement. You wouldn’t be surprised to find out it’s because he’s noticing your fragility. The coven members often laugh at any signs of your human weakness. They think themselves superior for it. You continue on, determined to ignore any taunting, “Can I wait to speak with my father until the morning? I really need to sleep…”

You know the battle is won already. The guard is nodding, a smile still on his face as he looks at you with continued bemusement. His body language enough to betray his response. He is going to let you go, for now. He probably wants to be relieved of duty so he can go down to the cellars and drink some poor sap who is being held in the prisons below. The coven often gathers excess humans for later meals. There are a lot of members of your vampire community, and it makes it easier to keep them stocked, so to speak. You have never ventured there yourself, too afraid of the temptation that would follow. The guard gestures you down the hall with a smirk, and you quickly set off, not bothering to check if he follows you or turns towards the cellars.

You pass the large doors that would take you to the council chambers but do not enter as you continue your quest to your quarters. Your mouth still tastes of bile, despite the long drink from the elk. You want to clean your teeth and take a long dip in a hot bath. Another guard is waiting for your arrival at the entrance to your chambers. It must be the changing of the shifts.

You swallow unpleasantly once you see who it is. _Boris._ He stands tall and proud next to the open door. His red eyes look into your own with a more sinister version of your previous’ sentry’s amusement. Calia has disappeared from your side. She must have followed the young guard to the cellars for a meal, as he too is nowhere in sight. For the moment, it is just you and Boris, standing alone in the hall. You try to slide past, but he shifts to the side so that he is blocking the entry to your room.

“Wait…” his voice is a slimy simper as a grin spreads across his face.

You feel your stomach drop. It seems like Boris wants to play…


	7. Boris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far. We are about halfway through this "introductory" part of the tale, where it's entirely original characters. You will be seeing some familiar faces probably a few weeks from now! Thank you for being so kind and sticking with the work so far, it's been great writing for you guys.
> 
> Please note that this chapter is rated M for violence. There is also a little unwanted sexual contact in this chapter, but I tried my hardest not to be too blatant. 
> 
> Thanks to Slow_Lorax for her fantastic beta-editing of this chapter. I couldn't have done it without her. Enjoy!!

**Chapter Seven: Boris**

  
“Boris…” you warn, your voice sharp out of both fear and apprehension. You try to slide past the large vampire once more, but he remains stubbornly in the way. His grin is horrid, far too many teeth and not enough warmth. Like it’s etched onto his features: a cruel clown with a terrible gaping mouth. Disgust fills your gut, even worse than the wretched bile from before, as you tear your eyes away from his wide smirk and try to think of your other options for sanctuary. There is a soft chaise in the library, and the room is often abandoned. You could easily sleep the night away in there if Boris refuses to leave your door.

  
You know the idea is foolish, but you still attempt to run. Boris is too quick for you—the advantage of being fully vampire and not the half-weak, pathetic thing you are. You do not make it two feet before he’s slamming you against the wall, your body trembling from the excessive force. There is a visceral, throbbing pain in your skull, where your head connected with stone. Your vision blinks red for just a moment before your quick healing kicks in and the pain seeps away. His rogue, feral eyes are inches from yours, and he sucks in his breath with a loud, sudden inhale.

  
“Boris!” You repeat his name again, but your voice is feeble, the air temporarily knocked from your lungs. This violence is not new, but you had no way of suspecting it tonight. No hint that the man would be angry right now. What reason did he have to be so cross? He was not in the earlier meeting with your father. In fact, you have not seen him in a few days. Surely there could be no reason for such a vicious interruption…

  
You almost lose your balance as you are unexpectedly dropped on your feet. Boris steps away, slowly, looking at you. You realize, with another appalled jolt within your gut, that he is trying to be alluring. He blinks a few times, his lashes dense beneath his ginger brow. He is not a handsome man, despite the fact that vampires are supposed to appear shockingly beautiful to the mortal eye. You see right through his venomous tricks. He is a stocky, Irish fellow and his hair is too thick on his head. His chin is covered by an overgrown, ugly beard and he would be positively plain if his eyes weren’t so harsh. You see past his common features, too aware of the agony he can inflict with just a touch.

  
“I heard of your little predicament,” he begins, his voice quiet now. “Your little need…”

  
He purrs the last word, and you shiver with a lurch of revulsion. Do you really want to know what he means? It seems too wicked, and far too intimate. He continues on, uncaring.

  
“The master’s little spawn..” He sweeps his cold eyes across the length of your body. You try to pull your hunting robe across your chest. Goosebumps rise as unease enters your gullet, jamming your airway with a panicked intake of breath. He reaches out and grabs your right hand, pulling it from the tight grip you’ve made on the hem of your garment. “Keep it open,” he commands, his voice barely a whisper as he leans closer. “I like what I see…” His stare is pointed now, firm upon the smooth span of skin above your breast. You want to close your eyes, if only to avoid his. The look makes your blood curdle, but you jam your retort back down your throat. 

  
He takes your silence as encouragement and pushes forward, weighing heavily across your body, every inch of hefty mass pinning you against the stone wall. He slips your hand from his grasp and moves both of his own to the skin beneath your blouse, their movement too rough against your sides. You can feel his desire, hard against your leg, pressing into your thigh most unwelcomingly as he moves. You bite your tongue to prevent yourself from calling out in horror. You shift your head away from his, but he only gets closer, his breath cold on your neck.

  
“Your father spoke of you this evening. Told us of his little plan.” He is an inch from your throat, and you try, unsuccessfully, to back yourself further into the wall. He does not notice. “Told us how much you need a mate. How much you are longing to breed with someone worthy – someone who can help bring more _joy_ to our coven.”

Joy? Is that what your pairing off meant? Your child would be a beacon of hope, perhaps, to this small group of hidden vampires. You do not, cannot, understand why a child would be so important to your father’s plans. Is he not satisfied with you? You, who see the future in your sleep, and can protect him with your ability to know? To detect his foes, and stop their plans before they even knew their own intentions? What can a child bring into this world that you can not?

  
You think of the vision of the square. Your father standing with his hands raised while the coven stole life after life. For what purpose? To consume all and to destroy? Would that not kill them in the end? If all of humanity was dead, who was the coven to drink? Vampires cannot consume human food. It causes them to get sick, to vomit just as you had in the forest earlier. You never attempt to eat anything beyond animal blood, but you wonder briefly if you have this ability where they do not. You will have to check…

  
Boris was far too close now. His lips brush softly against your neck, and you begin to act from instinct, no longer caring if you invoke his wrath. You push harshly on his shoulders, digging your nails into the fabric as sharply as you can, and finally escape his clutch as he staggers back. Relief is fleeting.

  
His voice is a mighty roar as he grabs you again, this time by your throat, and lifts you off your feet. Your head slams against the wall, much harder than before. He has an iron grip on your neck, constricting your airway. Fat tears gather at the corner of your eyes as you vainly try to breathe. Your fear seems to only excite him as he lifts you higher still. You slam into the ground and fall on your chest.

  
“Little bitch!” Boris cries out, slamming you with the knuckle of his clenched fist, pounding you with one hand and holding the back of your neck with the other. His voice fades as pain shoots across your spine. You slice open a thousand times, each pass of the invisible knife more agonizing than the last. The sensation is raw and searing hot. It slams into you, again and again and again, and extends from neck to back to limb to limb. You cannot speak. You are unable to even cry out. Reduced to a sobbing puddle on the floor as anguish consumes your every nerve.

The invisible knife caused by his touch attacks your gut, your breast, your thigh. It stabs into your temple and twists into your mind. You see red then black then red once more. Blood trickles from your lips as you bite them in your desperation to escape. No distraction works, and the pain continues until you are nothing short of a raw husk. You are going to explode, a pile of blood and guts.

  
The world caves in as Boris removes his fist and you lay there, eyes squeezed shut, humiliated by your inability to fight him off. You do not see the content smile on his face. You just stay unmoving, soaked in sweat and tears and the bitter stench of blood.

  
“You will learn to respect me when I am your mate,” Boris warns before standing up, towering above you. With one last relishing look, he gives you a sharp kick, hard upon a rib. You feel it snap and whimper, still biting your bleeding lips. Boris laughs, turns on his heel, and stocks off.

  
~

  
You are only vaguely aware when someone scoops you into their arms and carries you into your nearby bedroom. The door closes with a loud thud, and they lay you gently on your back. Your robe is removed, then your loose pants and finally your blouse. You open your heavy lids to look into the bright irises of your friend. Calia smiles sympathetically, and for a second you see a flash of guilt stretch across her features. Remorse for leaving you alone, although she surely could not have been aware of what lay in store for you when you reached your chambers.

  
You still feel hot as she leads you to a cold bath. You undress without caring for your modesty and slip into the icy water. It feels like a relief on your throbbing skin. The pain is your rib is still razor-sharp. The kick must have snapped it in half. You knew it was clawing together, tendril by tendril, but the process hurt. You hold your hand against it for a measured moment, closing your eyes in an attempt to will away the stinging ache.

  
Calia dabs at the skin beneath your lip with a minty salve, cleaning along the ridge of your own bite. It is no longer bleeding, but it is still raw. You hiss in pain as she follows the salve with a soft towel, encouraging the crease to heal by pressing gently upon it. She continues her movements, washing you like she had when you were a child. You do not fight her care, just let her clean the dirt off your skin as you relish in the feel of the bath. The ice is quickly melting, your abnormally high temperature neutralizing the water. Soon it will be tepid, not cold, and no longer provide you relief. Your companion works quickly and lifts you from the basin before it becomes too warm.

  
You dress in silence, grabbing each garment from a pile of clean clothes already laid out. She leads you back to your bed and you lay down, grateful for the familiarity of your blankets. You feel heavy with exhaustion; the long day has worn you thin. Calia sits neatly at the end of your bed and runs her fingers in your hair, her touch soft on your scalp.

You fall asleep and do not dream.


	8. Centenary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. This chapter is my longest yet. It has a ton of background information, so stick with it. I am hoping to start writing longer chapters, but it might take me some time as I already have many chapters drafted beyond this. 
> 
> No warnings in this chapter. Just a lotta guilt.
> 
> I hope you are enjoying this work - it's my first real fanfiction so I am definitely learning a lot, and reading a lot of other stories to learn how to be a better writer. 
> 
> Thanks to Slow_Lorax for her thorough review of this chapter (twice!) - much appreciated! :)

**Chapter Eight: Centenary**

  
It’s midday when you finally open your eyes. You blink slowly, unsure of what woke you at first, until you hear another loud series of knocks as someone calls out your name. Your head is heavy on your pillow, groggy from the night of dreamless sleep. You push yourself up and sit at the edge of the bed, bending over to pull your twisted sheets from around your ankles. Calia is already moving, unlocking the door, and cautiously peering her head into the hall, greeting your visitor. Evidently, she does not perceive them as a threat as she lets them in without any audible questions. When they enter, stepping lightly into the room in silence, you see it is the guard from yesterday’s hunt. You nod wearily as he says your name again, this time the cool vibrato of his voice inflecting upwards, a question instead of a demand.

  
“Are you well?” he asks, genuine concern radiating from his stony features. You furrow your brow, surprised at the interest. It is not often that anyone inquires about your health, or even seems to notice you as anything beyond the master’s daughter, for that matter. You take a moment to take stock of your own body. Your rib is no longer tender and the skin beneath your lip is smooth. You completely healed in the night and are no more flawed than before. You are grateful for that gift, at least. You nod, still cautious, and watch the guard curl his lips in a slight, but obviously kind smile. He continues, satisfied in your response, and conveys his message. “The master wants to see you in the library. If you are ready, I’ll lead you there.”

  
“Please just give me a moment so I can get dressed.” You respond automatically, though your mind is still occupied by the guard’s strange compassion. You do not know his name and you never bothered to ask. The guards, your sentries, a peck of sparrows guarding a single egg, are everchanging and never interested in simple pleasantries. You do not press the issue, nor try to pursue them for more than what they are. They carry out your father’s orders as much as you, bending to his will in both fear and respect. He has a way of carrying himself above them all, and though you often loathe him, you and they both know that it is foolish to put a toe out of line.

  
You make a mental note to formally introduce yourself to the guard the next time you are alone. Perhaps when you hunt. You drop his gaze and stand, moving towards your dresser in one quick step. He excuses himself into the hall, and you hastily select an outfit. You pull on a simple dress, beige and indistinctive, and don a pair of leather boots. You do not bother with your robe this time; you do not plan on leaving the mountain today.

  
You step into the hall with Calia, and the pair of you follow the guard down a series of tunnels until you reach a set of ornate, wooden doors. He turns the handles and pushes the doors wide enough for you to enter. He glances purposefully at Calia, and the two, in surprising synchronization, grasp a handle each and shut the door behind you, stationing themselves outside the room.

  
You take a moment to appreciate the space. Like every other chamber inside the mountain, there are no windows. Deep shelves are carved directly in the stone of the walls, and hundreds of books are arranged carefully in their depths. You adore this room, it being one of the few sanctuaries you have. Most of the coven is uninterested in these dusty tomes, ancient and boring. Some date back centuries, their stories reminiscent of another time. Almost every vampire in the coven is young, less than a century old, and more preoccupied with hunting expeditions, parties you do not attend, and regular fight training in some unknown part of the mines. Your father keeps you away from anything he deems unnecessary for your service. You attend some council meetings, hunt animals, and work through visions. Any free time is spent in here, reading. You do not care how old the books are; you are grateful for something interesting to occupy your endless hours. Time likes to crawl when you are idle.

  
You sit expectantly on the chaise. It is tufted and velvet, a deep gray in color and soft to the touch. You wait for your father to berate you, ask you about the vision in the forest and try to explore what it meant. He stands statuesque by a shelf, solid and still except for the ever-constant gliding of his eyes, back and forth across the pages of a thick book, balanced in one hand. You peer curiously at the title. It is a collection of poems by C. J. Dennis. He does not look at you when begins to read out loud, his deep velvet voice washing through the room.

  
_“Now comes to an end all our dolorous drifting;_  
_Clouds pass away and depression is lifting._  
_Because we were wise in our planning and sought_  
_The lesser of ills that the greater be fought_  
_Hope springs again in the heart of a nation;_  
_Because we were brave and accepted oblation_  
_Of sharp sacrifice, now comes recompense near_  
_With the dawn of our glorious Centenary year.”_

  
You hear words, but they have no meaning to you. They seem religious, and far too human. It does not seem relevant. What does this have to do with your visions? You do not think the change in your dreams meant your coven was going to lift from depression. Is your coven depressed? It seems happy and content to you, if not a little bored.

  
_“For the good of our souls have we borne the dark sorrows_  
_Of that gloomy day which buys many bright morrows;_  
_For the good of our land have we chosen to shun_  
_The glittering sand, that real treasure be won._  
_And we who were counted the prodigal nation_  
_Have won new renown by our self-immolation_  
_And the lands of the earth now in wonder behold_  
_This youngest of lands in grave wisdom grown old.”_

  
Self-immolation? Prodigal nation? The words spin in your head, but you do not dare interrupt the steady flow of syllables pouring from your father’s lips. The memory of Boris’ inflicted pain still lingers across your skin, and you know not incite your father’s wrath.

  
_“And now we return with new heart to our labor,_  
_And, where gloom was rife, neighbor smiles upon neighbor;_  
_And now comes, to light our Centenary year_  
_Not the dawn of false hope ever followed by fear_  
_But a dawn that shall last and wax ever in brightness,_  
_Bringing strength to the weak: to the heavy heart, lightness._  
_Bringing hope to the fearful and ending dismay._  
_Because we have chosen the fighter’s hard way.”_

  
Your father pauses now, lifting his gaze from the pages of the book to stare keenly at you, those ruby eyes twisting into your soul as he reads the last verse.

  
_“Then let us not squander our hardly-won treasure_  
_In pursuit of false joys and enfeebling leisure._  
_Tired in the fire, we have proven our worth:_  
_We have proven our strength to the peoples of earth._  
_If courage in ill days has won us salvation,_  
_So wisdom in good days shall flee the temptation_  
_To seek prosperity vain, foolish things._  
_Let us husband the gifts our Centenary brings.”_

  
The verse dies out, but the air remains full of hidden meaning. You consider each phrase, but you are ignorant of its purpose. It is a full minute before your father speaks again, crimson orbs still glaring directly at your psyche.

  
“For the good of our souls have we borne the dark sorrows,” You fight the urge to recoil from his harsh, unmoving gaze. You want to look away in fear, shake away the uneasy scrutiny. His eyes do not move as he suddenly swoops before you and drops the the heavy book on your lap with a resounding thud. Reprieve is finally found as he sits delicately on the chaise and looks away. His voice is firmer when he speaks, less harsh but still authoritative. “Do you understand me?”

  
You shake your head meekly as bewilderment clouds your sight. He barks out a tiny laugh, more of a huff than anything, and gives you a quick, appraising look.

  
“I wonder, daughter...” he begins, his tone light and inquisitive now. You are uneasy with this turn of events. Where is your scolding? Where are the questions about yesterday’s collapse? He continues on, “if explaining myself will set your heart at ease…”

  
“What?” you stammer, skeptical. He was harsh in your last meeting, his voice cold and demanding. You are dubious of his kind demeanor, his pleasant, curious tone foreign to your ears. He almost never speaks to you this way – at least not without a hidden agenda. “Yes, darling, I think I miscommunicated my intentions yesterday. I expect so much of you and do not give you anything in return.”

  
You do not deny him, afraid of inciting his wrath and thus summoning Boris to force you back into place with his burning touch. You still feel wary despite his gentle response.

  
“This coven has been around for a while,” he explains. You begin to listen, your curiosity pushing at the boundary of your fear, you are starting to feel a little eager for his words, the dread deflating the longer he speaks. “A century ago, I claimed this mountain for my own. It had belonged to another group of vampires, you see, and it was beautiful and remote even then. I desperately wanted it for myself and I knew it would not take much to steal. They were a weak group, largely dead from centuries worth of inner conflict, and they were driven primarily by their lust of blood. With some planning, it was easy enough to overtake their feeble defenses.”

  
You already know vaguely of the histories as a result of many questions. Queries not addressed towards him, but asked to Calia, who had learned from trustworthy members of the coven. You know he is older than a century, however, so this story would not likely include the origin tale you most eagerly sought. You wonder briefly where he had lived before. This question is not new, but you doubt your curiosity is about to be sated by whatever story he seeks to share.

  
“I had a few allies, of course. My enforcer, Boris, my counselors Onorato and Ines, and a few young newborns we had gathered on our journey. Those young ones did not survive the battle, for though the ancient vampires were weak, they still fought with ferocity worthy of the mountain. Victory soon came upon us and their bodies were burned. We settled in these great halls and established our own coven, _The Alzati_ , which means ‘GET UP’, for we are fated to rise above all others when the time is right.”

  
Alzati is your coven’s name and you already know its literal meaning. Calia who had immigrated from Italy and therefore could speak fluent Italian, had explained it to you a while ago. She could translate just about any Italian word you came across. The purposeful connotation associated with the simple words, however, is something new. You never considered the translation to be meaningful.

  
“We may have been stronger than these old vampires, but we did not have the numbers to take on the rest of our world at that time. We knew we must rise in both the quantity and quality of our forces. Outgrow all other covens until we had a large enough population to overthrow their oppressive rule. There are evils in this world, you see, that try to control our kind. They say we are to hide forever and never take our rightful place above humanity. Truthfully, such subjugation sickens me. Vampires rightfully belong at the helm of the earth. We are its destiny…”

  
His voice putters out like he is deep in thought. You realize you have been looking at him like a fool, your mouth agape and shock stretched across your face. You have never known your father to speak to you with so much honesty. The hair on the back of your neck prickles warily, but you shake off your feeling of apprehension and press on with your overpowering curiosity. “Why you are telling me this?” you ask, forgetting your usual careful words in favor of raw interest, anew and vibrant. Nothing makes sense. He laughs again, a real chortle this time, but otherwise ignores your question.

  
“I met your mother at a dirty little carnival on the outskirts of a tiny town in rural Idaho. She wore a thick veil and smelled sickly sweet. I wanted to drink her right away… her aroma was so strong, so enchanting. It called to me, a sweet melody of burgundy wine. Yet, somehow, she stopped me with a single word.” His eyes are reflective now, perhaps even wistful. You feel a familiar stirring in your gut that marks the hatred you’ve harbored for this man since birth. It pierced you from the moment he wet his lips with her blood. It must have tasted so sweet, for him to be so reminiscent. You hold your tongue, your longing to understand your mother’s past temporarily greater than your desire to lodge a spike through your father’s head.

  
“She said my name and it made me stop my frantic descent towards her throat. I stopped and stared as she spoke of my future with certainty. She understood exactly who I was and laid out the path I was going to take. It was intermingled with her own, and with yours as well. Our unification was written in the stars, she said, and your birth was her destiny. I had never seen anything like it from a human, never met someone who understood the future so clearly. I was fascinated and stole her away from her home that very night. I brought her back to this mountain and began to act, motivated by the knowledge she had revealed. It was not long before she was giving birth to you.”

  
His words tumble out and you suddenly find yourself clenching your fists, your knuckles pulling taut against your skin as you think back upon that day. If he was so enchanted by her, so enthralled by her mysterious power, why had he not changed her to be immortal like she had directly requested? Shortly after you were ripped from your mother’s womb, you heard her words, pathetic and weak, but sure of themselves and their request to be changed. Clearly, she would have been more useful when she was enhanced. Becoming a vampire could further a person’s gifts.

  
Your father seems to read your sour expression, and his voice is uncharacteristically quiet in its response.

  
“I did not wish her dead, you know. I tried to inject the venom before she succumbed, but she was too weak. My venom did not reach her heart before it stopped, and she never completed her transformation. Your sudden eruption from her womb had stolen all her blood.”

  
He looks down, distraught, and you notice a tear threatening the corner of his eye. You try to swallow, but your tongue is too heavy for your throat to properly constrict.

  
“I know you did not mean it. You were too big for her body, and it was suffocating you. You ruptured several organs when you thrashed about, and it was all I could do to pull you out before you died as well.” Real salt-and-water is falling from his face, or perhaps salt-and-venom. You have never seen a full-blooded vampire cry; you did not know it was possible. The deep velvet of his voice is strained as he delivers his final blow. “Do not blame yourself for her death, dear child. You did not mean to kill her.”

  
You feel your face grow flush as a myriad of emotions strikes you at once. A great expanse of grief as you relive her loss. Confusion, at your father’s explanation. Anger, that your thrashing escape had stolen her life away. And most of all, guilt. Ever crushing humiliation, falling onto your shoulders with a great crash. You were the responsible one, the one who had taken the innocent life of the one you loved. Not him. He had tried to save her.

  
You had judged him all these years, hated him for what had felt like a lack of care when she had died. Did he merely wear a mask the day those unfeeling eyes drove into your own? He seems so eager in admitting his faults now. His weakness for her blood, his desperation for her survival. How does this desire he had to save your mother excuse the torment he brings upon you every time you rebel? Whether this punishment is through Boris’ rupturing torture or through a simple confinement to your room. You have been subjected to the always watchful guard and the constant harassment about your visions. Questions and answers that are always so one-sided. It is different than any emotion he exhibited before. You shake off your doubt and ignore all warning signs, shame overwhelming all other senses. Flooding you. Squeezing you raw from the inside out. You shake your head a couple times, trying to clear your swirling thoughts, but they refuse to budge. Your father’s face has softened even as he continues to silently cry. It takes a minute for him to fully compose himself.

  
“She spoke of your destiny, too. Explained that you and your children were to be the true future of this coven. You are to bring change to this world, child. You will bring joy and order and dignity back to Earth. You are to create a new race: part vampire but also human. Able to drink blood and eat mortal food. Stronger, faster, yet still immortal. It is through you, and those we can create to be like you, that we can conquer. Overthrow the evil vampires and start a new age. _‘A_ _dawn that shall last and wax ever in brightness, / bringing strength to the weak, to the heavy_ _heart, lightness. / Bringing hope to the fearful and ending dismay. / Because we have chosen the_ _fighter’s hard way.’_ It is up to you and only you, my beloved daughter. Help me begin this new nation. I cannot do this alone. You are too valuable to our future plans and I want you to see the path forward and guide me. Together we will rise above all. You and I, will rule, as father and child, and set the world right.”

  
It is in this moment that you begin to truly understand his point of view. See the calling that brought you to life. You see your father’s plan, and the direction it would follow. You see the blood on the street, the vampires feasting eagerly yet there is more to this vision that you had not clearly observed in your dreams. Young women heralded away, paired off with undead mates, ready to birth a new world, a new species of vampires and humans. Hybrids, capable of humanity but gifted with immortality. In your mind, your father raises his hands in worship. Victory, he whispers.

  
Poem is _Wisdom After Victory_ by C. J. Dennis.


	9. Adrift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for this being a day late. I had to travel to another city yesterday to be in a student film and posting this chapter definitely slipped my mind. Thank you for your patience! 
> 
> In case you are wondering, by the way, you will be meeting canon characters starting in Chapter 13. We are almost there, woo!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This scene deals with self-harm in the last three paragraphs. It's not graphic and there is no blood involved, but you can definitely skip this chapter or those paragraphs if need be. It's more of a transition/thought-process chapter than anything. If you're looking for angst, however, this chapter is it.
> 
> Thanks to my beta reader, Slow_Lorax, for her thorough review of this and all other chapters of this work. I appreciate you.

**Chapter Nine - Adrift**

Your thoughts are still adrift as you head back to your room, clutching the heavy book in your arms. _A new nation, a new race, a new world._ You have a hard time believing all of it, and you feel dangerously afraid. You did not say much before you left, simply thanked your father for his time and told him you had a lot of thinking to do. You cannot shake the violent vision from your mind. It is piercing your soul, clawing its way at your heart even as you try to move resolutely forward.

You can see a fork in your future – a decision. One choice would lead to that bloody square, you know, and the other would lead somewhere else. To that human voice? The wolf on the string? You wish you could will a dream into shape and see the future as clearly as your mother had. Your father even gave you her name, and you were still tasting it on your tongue. Repeating it again and again so you would not forget. You wonder vaguely if she had family out there. If anyone had noticed her disappearance.

Would it be a good thing to take over this earth? You know the Volturi are the evil vampires your father referenced. The ones with the laws. You do not see how their rules are that different than the ones the Alzati practice. Do not be seen. Do not draw notice.

There really is only one key difference. Your father wants to incorporate the vampires with the humans. The rules you follow are different because they are meant to be temporary. The Volturi, if they were as old as you’ve heard, do not intend to change their rules. They have remained steady through the centuries. Your father is moving fast, the coven’s Centenary within one year. So, the vision is to come true before another year has passed? This thought brings a new fervor to your consideration. You do not have much time to act if you are going to choose a different path.

You do not know where to start. Your father mentioned a dinner that would be held soon, something about meeting with potential mates. Would he make you go? Could you endure such an evening? You try to wash the idea from your head, hoping if you delay thinking about it then you can continue unbothered. Boris’ attention the night before frightens you away from any thought of seduction. You know, rationally, that most men will not resort to pain to win you over. Boris fights dirty, however, and you know if he wants you, he will find a way to take you by force.

This scares you even more. Can you stand a life with a mate who loves to inflict pain? You may only need to copulate with him once – just enough to get pregnant. Would he accept that, or would he insist on taking you as a proper lover? Marry you even?

The idea of marrying Boris makes you want to throw up.

You could get lucky and end up with Christopher. Or maybe the kind guard, who evidently had not revealed your episode in the woods to your father, much to your surprise. You could bear to mate with someone kind. But to what end? You feel tied to this mission, destined by your mother’s death, but is it a cause that is truly worthy?

Humanity seems happy in their ignorance, even if they are often prey. Hunted only to the extent that vampires need to survive, not enough to have any real bearing on their numbers. You still do not like it – vampires can survive on animal blood alone, but they are selfish and want what their bodies crave. No vampire you know is willing to make that sacrifice.

You hate the quiet life of your coven. Hate being locked up, restricted, watched. You are curious about the little wolf, and the soft hands of the human man. It makes no sense: How could your paths cross with him? Unless you found a way to escape? Slip into the dark of the night and never return? Would your father still enact his plan if you leave?

Of course, he would… there were other women he could impregnate. Other innocent humans, ripped from their homes and used only for their wombs, to birth another monster like yourself. You see clearly now that this is what you are. A monster who killed her own mother, drained her of her blood to the point that your father had no chance of saving her. She had died before the venom could take hold.

His words are sincere, you think. It is hard to tell, but you want to trust him, even if it is simply to explain your remorse. Perhaps his eyes were cold not because he relished in taking your mother’s life, but because you had taken it instead. The guilt weighs heavily in your gut, sliding into your heart and stabbing you from the inside out with a fierce beat. You want to sprint to your room, jump on your bed, slip under your covers and cry until your tears run out. You’ve spent your entire life hating your father for the murder of your mother. Now you understand that you were the murderer all along. You killed your mother, plain and simple, and nothing you could do would ever change that fact.

Your feet lead you to an empty hall and into a little alcove that nobody ever passes. You sit on the ground with a heavy slump, bringing your knees up and resting your head between them. You want to throw up again, but you push the acid back into your gut. You are a murderer. You killed your mother. Your father tried to save her. You killed her. You stole her life. You made her bleed. _Murderer, murderer, murderer!_

You can only make it right in one way. There was only one way to honor your mother and the vision she risked her life for. You are to find a companion, carry a child into this earth, and start a new race. You must do this to appease your guilt. You are the one who can see the future. Just like your mother, whose life you stole. You can choose the right path. You can create a new world, a new race, stronger, better, new.

Will this bring you joy? A sense of purpose? Will you be clear of guilt if you agree to this request? It still amazes you that your father chose to share this information with you, his past so shrouded in secrets before. Perhaps he believes that understanding your true purpose will get you to agree? You do not know, but you are grateful for more knowledge, even if it reveals your fault.

You rock back and forth, your back hitting the alcove wall. You want to cause yourself pain, so you slam yourself against the wall. Again, and again, and again, guilt and despair writhing within you as you throw your body against the stone. You murdered your mother. You deserve this. You should feel this pain. _Murderer._

Eventually your shoulders ache, and the throbbing becomes unbearable. You force yourself to stop, numb from your transgressions. You have no idea what to do, no clue where to turn. This really hurts. It all hurts, your back, your heart, your shame, your soul. You want to forget, but the memory of your mother’s death keeps replaying in your head. A record player stuck on one song. You feel as if you will never outlive this.

You bury your head in your knees once more and let yourself cry.


	10. Options

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild violence in this one, but not very graphic. Overall the chapter is pretty innocent.
> 
> What are you guys thinking so far? I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Thanks to Slow_Lorax for her review of this chapter. I literally would not survive without her excellent editing skills and endless questions. Get yourself a beta reader, kids, you won't regret it and your writing will never be the same.

**Chapter Ten - Options**

You lose sense of time for a while. The minutes become hours become days become weeks and soon June has passed and July hits the forest with an unbearable heat. The sun glares hot and steady on the mountain and forces the Alzati Coven to stay within its shadowed halls lest they are spotted by unwelcome eyes when they venture out to hunt. Everyone is thirsty as the sun beats unashamedly down, too bright, and noticeable.

You hardly drink yourself, though animals are plentiful in the national park and you could have any one of them you choose. Every day is a continuous burn of thirst and longing, but you refuse to leave your bed as shame becomes all consuming. You killed your mother, murdered her with the simple act of birth. You held a grudge towards your father for seventeen years even though you were the guilty party. He was incredibly strong – she was his singer, her blood a siren song to his fangs, yet he spared her, longed for her, _tried_ to save her.

She must have known she could die. She was desperate in the end, _pleading_. She cried out for his venomous bite, longing to join him in the world of the undead, yet she succumbed to the force of her injuries.

You cannot help but wonder, though – why choose to be a vampire if you have another option? You would have chosen mortality, certainly, if it had been an alternative over bloodlust. It tortures you, every day, drives you to imagine murder instead of mercy. You long to drink at the red fountain of life. It would sate every dark desire you hold within your heart. It is _vile_ and yet so vivacious. Can you ever escape such longing? You fear not, though you battle your nature with ferocity. You will not be a monster, _never a monster_ , if you can control it.

Death is not your greatest fear. You fear a life of wrong choices. You would rather die than cause pain with your mistakes. Yet dying seems a pointless way to repay your mother’s sacrifice, don’t you think? For she brought you into this world knowing it could take her out. You stole her last chance; you ruined her body before she could be turned. _Thief!_

You know in your mind what you must do, but it does not make the choice any easier. You are to be a new hope for this world, your mother foresaw it. You must act, you must, or her sacrifice will be in vain.

There are glimpses of possibilities in every one of your dreams. Babies born of stone-and-flesh, filling the halls with their roaring cries as they shoot up with limbs growing far too fast. You recognize each mate in their features as your options are weighed and considered. Christopher’s narrow nose, Daniel’s lengthy frame, Boris’ thick, ginger hair.

Occasionally you get a glimpse of your favorite guard, Geralt. You learned his name while he stood outside your room, then later when he took turns with Calia to comfort you, sitting at the end of your bed and speaking soothingly even as you toss-and-turn and cry until your eyes dry out.

The children you dream of from him are your favorite of all – two little twins with toothy grins and vibrant eyes. They will call you _Mama_ and bring delight to all they meet. You long for them above all else, and hope with all your heart your father chooses Geralt as your match. If you must be married, you want to at least enjoy the experience. The twins feel so real to you, even as they run and giggle and fade away from your visions each night.

You write down each future and pass it on to Calia to deliver. Your father spares you from the suitor dinners, where he meets with your potential mates to ask them questions. How will they help raise their children? What future do they see with the coven? How do they feel about his rule? Would they be willing to sacrifice their lives in battle if it were for the Alzati’s greater good?

You do not hold love for the men. They are cold and cruel like the other vampires, and you know they will say only what your father wants to hear. You just want someone kind, who will not hurt you if you are less than perfect. You urge Geralt to step forward, though the affection you feel for him is more friendly than romantic. He, at least, is always considerate, even as you hide in bed. He even brings you the occasional squirrel or mouse, animals that have gotten lost in the mountain’s endless tunnels. They do not sate your thirst, but their blood at least sustains you.

Recruiting Geralt brings its own advantage. He is the only one who would fill you in on the interview process. He shares your father’s questions and you in return tell him what to say. You whisper every sliver of knowledge and insight you’ve gathered over the years to your now loyal friend. He in return tries to woo your father with promises to obey, to act on his command alone.

Soon the race for your heart is only fought by two. Geralt, successful in his carefully placed words, and Boris, who has the advantage of knowing your father the longest. He has not visited you since he broke your rib, but that doesn’t make you doubt his want. Seduction was not possible, you made that clear enough, so convincing your father is his only choice. Once promised, he will take whatever he wants.

You ignore this thought and focus more on helping Geralt win. The task encourages you to emerge from your self-induced depression. You have a purpose now, and it distracts you from your never-ending shame. You begin to dress, though you still refuse to hunt, and allow your father to call you to meetings with the council once more. They are strategizing of what to do once your children are born. You say nothing as they discuss the coven’s fate, just listen, and absorb each day as the next.

The dreams of the wolf do not stop, though even these are glimpses of what could be. Your breath heavy as you run through an unknown forest, the wolf necklace bouncing off your chest. Laughter around a large fire, the smell of something cooking wafting through the night’s air.

Brown eyes, straining in pain as something rips from flesh. Yellow eyes panicked, screaming in their intensity as they leap forward, grabbing something from a metal drawer.

That human man, though his face still obscure, holding you, kneeling with you, speaking unknown words with a fervent voice.

None of it makes sense, and nothing is sharp enough to really see. Your frustration grows stronger by the day as you long to understand. You cling harder at the strange faces of Geralt’s twins, they at least clear and in focus. You want certainty and you want to choose your own path. Geralt is here before you, he sits at your side day by day. If you must be forced to mate, you at least want to pick the man.

It seems to take your father forever to decide your fate, when in reality it is not yet August. You function at mostly normal levels now, your distress only evident when you are alone. You wander aimlessly around the corridors, thinking through another vision.

In this dream, you stand in a marble atrium. Columns surround you, and most are intact. Before you there is a gashing of teeth and the blurred outlines of many fights. Many vampires are dead upon the floor, both ones you know and some you do not. The battle seems to be endless as both sides scream, destroying benches, crashing through stone steps, and throwing parts of bodies into Latin inscriptions on the wall.

Your father finally steps forward, his action enough to draw the attention of each battling foe. The whole room takes a collective gasp as he holds something in his hand, the long black hair of a slain vampire.

“Join me!” your father calls to the fray. The sight of the decapitated leader seems to stir something in a small girl, her eyes as red as any other. She stares forward, whispering something inaudible, and your father falls in a violent pain, writhing and contorting while the head he stole rolls swiftly to your feet. You lift it and crimson eyes stare back at you; boring into your soul though they are now unseeing.

You were pulled swiftly from your slumber then, and the vision dances in your memory for the rest of the day. You write it down in your secret journal, unwilling to share it even as it haunts you.

You play each detail in your mind again and again. You are so deep in thought you do not notice as someone rapidly approaches you. It is only when they begin to speak that you break from your thoughts.

Geralt stands before you, his eyes sparkling. Glee stretches across his face as he practically sings your name. He was turned quite young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, and you can see the youth in his face quite clearly. You’d think him handsome if you could think such a thing at all, but you are unwilling to consider it while your future is so unclear. Perhaps his next words will change your mind.

“It’s over!” he declares, triumphant, and lifts you swiftly into his arms, spinning in an exuberant circle. “We are to marry!” He shouts your name again as he squeezes you harder and harder with more joy than he has ever expressed before.

“W-what?” you sputter out, caught off guard and feeling quite constricted with his arms so tight. He seems to realize you are struggling to breathe as he soon sets you carefully back on the floor. You lock your eyes with his as he steps back, his icy hands still on your shoulders.

“Your father chose me to marry you!” His voice is loud, echoing in the hall, and the words finally hit you. He won! _You_ won! You are to marry your friend and not the monster Boris! Relief floods your veins and you find yourself grinning as wide as him, staring into those happy eyes.

“That’s excellent!” you shout back, trying to match his jubilant tone but your voice is strained. You do not know what you would have done if Geralt had not succeeded. Marrying Boris would have been a nightmare. Being forced to marry is a nightmare in of itself, but you long to accept your fate. You shrug the thought away and try to enjoy the moment. He looks at you differently now, the gleam of his gaze more intentional than his simple joy.

“What?” you ask, your mouth agape at the sudden change.

“Do you want to marry me?” he questions, his voice casual. You scrutinize his face, it is twisted in a hopeless bashfulness, curious yet shy. You wonder briefly if his attachment to you is more than a friend trying to do a favor. Is it love? Do you feel it back? Can you grow to love him? He seems to be feeling something deep for you.

The past several weeks you found yourself pushing away any sort of attachment of your own, too scared of a love that could be ripped away with a sudden decision. You think carefully on his question, and the answer becomes quickly obvious, even if it is only so because denying it is dangerous. Who are you to deny your father’s command? You want to be happy and marrying your friend could bring that. Plus, he is the safest choice. You know what you must say. _Say yes._

“Geralt, of course I want to marry you!” you exclaim, hoping with all hope that your tone is eager and genuine. Any further words are stolen when your lips are suddenly claimed by his.

The kiss is gentle but urgent, and curiosity carries you forward, stepping into his arms without breaking contact. You run your hands through his hair, a chestnut brown, cut short and wavy. He clings to your hips and runs his fingers beneath your shirt, steadying you as he continues to press against your lips.

You repeat reassurances to yourself as he moves against your body. You can be happy here in his arms. You can let go and love now, safe in your father’s choice of mate. You must be thankful it is to Geralt you are now promised. It is better to marry him then Christopher, Daniel, Boris… Most importantly, the twins you dream of will be yours to love and cherish! With them, you know that your life can be a good one.

Amid these thoughts, the kiss breaks and you gasp for air. Geralt leans his forehead on yours, and you stand against each other. You are hopeful.


	11. United

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E and is intended only for adult audiences. There is a semi-explicit sex scene in this one, so take that as you will. But hey, for once a chapter without violence, who knew that was possible?
> 
> This is my first time ever writing a full sex scene so my apologies if it's awkward. I will keep practicing.
> 
> Slow_Lorax is the best beta reader one could ask for and worked miracles on this chapter. Thank you so much!

**Chapter Eleven - United**

Boris does not take the news of his defeat lightly. You hold steadily to Geralt’s hand as the ginger vampire sputters and raves and flies around the council chamber, arguing with your father ferociously. You close your eyes and wish for the conflict to be over, hoping that Boris can take a hint and accept that his battle is lost. Your father had been nothing short of respectful to you, evidently thankful for your easy acceptance of the match.

“Good luck fighting your _precious Volturi_ without me!” the man roars, and finally turns away to stalk out of the hall. Two guards start forward, intending to grab him, but your father holds up a hand and waves.

“Let him by,” he commands, the deep velvet of his voice firm as Boris stalks to the door. He pauses for a moment, turning on his heel to glare in your direction. Not at you but at your fiancé – his eyes connect with Geralt and his next words are a vicious sneer.

“Good luck with your little whore!”

You squeeze your fingers tighter to Geralt’s palm, a warning against any sort of response. Boris slams the chamber doors behind him, and you finally uncoil the wrench within your gut.

Wedding planning is quick, your father impatient now that a decision is made. Nobody hears or sees anything of Boris after that, he abandons the coven he helped found far too easily. It’s suspicious and unnerving, but you want to move on. You do not speak of him. You try to forget his face, though you will never forget his power. He can stay away for an eternity if he wants. You will be happy to never even hear his name.

Geralt is nothing short of affectionate. He showers you in kisses every single day and spends the hours you are awake by your side. You learn his entire history, human and not. You do not feel romance, just comfort as he sits by your bed and talks to you until you fall asleep each night.

Your visions consist only of him now. You see his children clearly, learn their names as easily as your own, and look forward to bringing them into the world with him. He does not touch you intimately, which confuses you, but you do not press him. Your wedding is set for early August, and you know that you will be expected to be intimate then. All you understand of sex is what you read in your books. Their language is flowery and emotional and only gives you basic knowledge. Curiosity consumes you.

You try to ask Calia about it one day, red-faced and embarrassed, but she just presses her lips together mysteriously and whispers a teasing _you’ll see_.

Your father prepares a larger room for you and Geralt, though you are not to move into it until after your wedding. You enjoy yourself as you start to decorate the room with all your things. You set your favorite books on the shelves. Run your hands over the silky bedspread laid out on a large, four poster bed. Decorate the fireplace with a row of smooth rocks you found by the river outside. It begins to feel more real, and you revel in the idea of married life.

Soon the fateful morning dawns, and you wake up with a feeling of peaceful joy. You are all alone, for once, and you lay there with a smile threatening the corner of your lips. This is a good thing, you see. Forced marriage, or not, you are happy to be with a friend.

You take your time getting out of bed and walk silently to your restroom. The bath is ready for you, cold but not icy, the perfect temperature. You undress quickly, and step in, balancing lightly on one foot and then the next. You feel your remaining tension release itself slowly from each muscle and relax, eyes closed and head against the edge of the large tub. You stay there a while, unmoving, calm.

Eventually you dip below the water to wet your hair, work it into a lather, and rinse again. You scrub sweet soap along each leg carefully, then wash each your arms, your breasts, your back, reveling in the feeling of suds on skin. You do not want to leave your cold bath when you are finally clean, but time is not your friend and the clock on the bathroom wall ticks closer to the scheduled event.

You finally stand, leaving the water to drain into a series of ancient metal pipes, built directly into the mountain and leading to an underground river that flows beneath its large body. It amazes you that the ancient vampires thought to include running water in their design but did not adjust for electricity. You think the mountain was carved sometime in the mid-1800s before technology began to bloom but after basic plumbing became widespread. You are grateful the library includes some history books. You do not want to be ignorant of the outside world, even if you have no practice with its advancements.

Calia is waiting for you in your bedroom when you finally emerge. Her eyes twinkle as she looks at you, your body wrapped in a towel, your face sporting a very content look.

“Are you ready, my sweet?” Her voice is full of amusement, and you wonder with whom she shares this private joke. You wrap a second towel around your head, this one hanging in front of the fireplace, and dry your hair.

You do not need makeup to be beautiful, and your wedding clothes are simple enough. Someone has stolen a long, lace dress from a Portland store just for the occasion. You suspect Calia had something to do with it; she seems to be enjoying mischief more as of late. Maybe it’s because her life can finally begin now that you are to be married and she no longer has to look after you. You wonder what sort of plans an elderly vampire can get up to – perhaps she would take a lover herself! You giggle at the thought of Calia chasing after Christopher, promising a good time in the sack.

You almost roll your eyes when you find the underwear your friend has bought. Ridiculously gaudy things, white lingerie with little bows to match your dress. _What in the actual hell is this?_

“Calia, I’m not wearing those!” You scold her, but you know the fight is over before it can begin. Her eyes widen in a ridiculous plea, and you pull on the offending garments before she can start to list all the reasons _why_ you should put them on. It is totally unnecessary, but you kind of like being teased. You will miss these moments when most of your time is spent with your husband, trying to get pregnant.

Finally, it is time to wear your dress. Calia’s fingers are gentle along your back as she clasps each satin button together with a satisfying pop. You let her dress you like a doll, and swallow back the overwhelming sense of gratitude that floods your nerves. She is the closest thing you will ever have to a mother, and she has shown you nothing but love. Your nose feels heavy as you fight back a sniffle, trying desperately not to cry and stain your gown with salt.

You avoid her gaze as she combs out your almost-dry hair and begins to braid it on top of your head, leaving little bits and pieces out to frame your face. She must have gathered flowers in the woods this morning, she begins to stick them in your plaits. Little wildflowers, purple, yellow, white. Absolutely stunning and containing enough thoughtfulness to completely destroy your resolve not to cry. You begin to blubber, thankful and astounded and happy. Calia just coos in quiet contentment and lets you cry while she finishes her work.

You do not recognize the woman before you in the mirror, she is so transformed. She wears your face, but it is much more grown up than you. You are beauty in the flesh, and it reflects the hope you hold so carefully in your heart. You did not originally want to marry, but now that the day is here you feel comfortable enough. Geralt can bring you peace, you think, and together you can find a way to reign in your father and his many plans.

“I’m ready, Calia.” You answer her question from before, smiling up at her and eager for your day.

Aisles are walked, vows are made, and everything seems to fall perfectly into line. You are grateful it is Geralt whose lips you kiss at the end of the ceremony, and not any of your other suitors. Christopher would have been kind enough, but you would have walked to Boris with dread and terror. Your former guard’s lips are cold but affectionate against yours. You do not eat nor drink, it being a vampire event after all, just enjoy each other’s company and talk idly with different members of the coven. It is the closest thing to a party you have attended since your announcement ceremony.

The day dwindles by slowly and you feel strangely pleasant as Geralt showers you with affection. His thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand. At one point, he sweeps you off your feet in a moment of joy, brushing his nose against yours. Once everyone has their fair share in the merriment, you are finally able to walk, fingers interlaced, back to your new suite. You feel a twinge of nervousness, deep in your gut, when your husband stops to lift you up beneath your knees and carry you gently across the threshold of your room.

The door swings shut behind you, but Gerealt does not lock it as he moves you swiftly to your new bed and lays you on it like you are nothing short but the most precious thing he has ever set his eyes upon. You bite your lip absentmindedly and look into his deep red eyes, so vastly beautiful in his breathy excitement. You rest idly on your elbows as he begins to remove his robe. He undoes the fabric so tantalizingly slow you consider springing forward to burst all the buttons free at once.

You aren’t sure quite what to expect from the evening, but you trust your new husband to be careful with you. He worships you like a delicate flower, always attentive and caring whenever he steals a kiss or runs a finger along your chin. Can you handle more? Surely you are strong enough to be stolen with far more than he dares to give, but maybe you don’t want that from him, maybe not yet. It is better to ease into the fire, if it is into the fire you must leap, and so you trust his cautious steps.

You smile once he finally rids his robe, sliding it off his shoulders casually and revealing his chest to you. You want to confess your admiration at once, but he blocks you by leaning into a sudden, fervent kiss. Your eyes close at the touch of his marble lips against your own, all-too-human pair. It’s more urgent than anything, a lowering of his shields. No longer must he guard you or be guarded against you. You are finally free to come together, your union racing closer each second.

He brushes against your lips with a hesitant tongue, and you grant him entry immediately. His mouth is soft against your own, and you explore each other carefully, velvet and granite in an ever-constant dance. He moves your body against his until he cradles you, and as gradual as he undid his own buttons, he begins to release the clasps of your dress. His bare skin is chilly against your own, but it is not unpleasant. It is more the feeling of your favorite cold bath, and you sink deeper into him the more he moves his hands across your body, rubbing patterns into your arms, bringing gentle fingers up to cup your breasts, trailing kisses from your mouth to your neck.

“I want you…” His voice is hoarse against your ear, and you do not doubt him. You only pull him closer and envelop him in a kiss, communicating your own need in the only way you can. He undoes his belt, removes his pants, and kicks off his shoes without breaking your zealous connection. It’s as if you are the sun, illuminating his every whim, hands more demanding as you rid yourself of any remaining fabric between your bodies, moving ever and ever closer and with so much longing.

“Wait!” you cry quickly, breaking the embrace to push his shoulders back. He watches your stare, concern defining his features as you drag in a deep breath. When you finally find your nerve, you speak softly, “I just want to look at you… I’ve never… I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I know,” Geralt reassures you, but he sits back and lets you explore his body, patient as always. You run your palms along his chest, grasp his hips, and touch his thighs. It takes you a moment to look at him entirely, eyes swimming as you take in the full view of his cock, erect and lying long against his pelvis.

You reach down and take him tentatively in your fingers, running your thumb along the smooth head before grasping him at his base. You allow yourself to feel him for a moment before risking a glance at his face. His stare makes you breathless as his eyes flick between your own and the hand you slide along his length.

“Come here…” he murmurs, reaching forward to grab you in his arms. He brings your neck to his lips, pulling bruises from your skin in his haste to shower you with as much adoration as he can. You melt into him and he kisses you until your lips are sore.

“Are you ready?” he breathes into your neck, and you can only whisper an eager _yes_ before he moves you to your back and hovers above you, anxious yet enthusiastic. “Is this okay?” He asks again, and you nod your consent repeatedly, pulling him down to kiss you once more.

He moves his hand between you and pushes in, inch by inch, stopping whenever you gasp or clutch his shoulders in pain. It hurts, but it’s more like a gentle pressure, clutching at your walls then relieving ever-so-slightly. You pull his shoulder against your mouth and press deeply into the smooth expanse of skin, letting him claim you at an even pace.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you smile as he moves within you, that gentle spirit everlasting, strong. “I love you… I love you… I love you.”

You do not answer him, just let him move cautiously to his release. If this is married life, you know you will learn to be content.

When all is said and done, and Geralt cradles you once more, you allow yourself to finally relax. You drift to sleep in his arms, your heart full of promise.


	12. Ablaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Mature for extreme violence. It may be considered disturbing to some readers. I will post a summary at the end if you wish to skip the violence. There is also graphic depictions of suffering as well. You have been warned.
> 
> Slow_Lorax has been incredibly helpful in eliminating any confusion within this scene. I thank her for her diligent dedication to editing this work. 
> 
> That being said, if anything is unclear please do not hesitate to let me know in the comments.

**Chapter Twelve - Ablaze**

_Inside Your Dreams_

Silence, at first.

Then, chaos. Slowly seeping into your vision as horror fills the cavity of your heart, lurching you forward and bringing you swiftly to your knees as you watch the scene unfold. You are in the cellars of the mountain, unrecognizable from experience but familiar in description. Large, arching caverns fitted with bars carved from the mountain itself, stronger than any human and most vampires, save newborns or the exceptionally tough. Each cell is fitted with an equally heavy door.

The doors are held open merely by the sheer number of people crammed into the caves. The torches fit into the walls flicker across their desperate faces. Hundreds of human women, ranging in age from teenagers to mid-fifties, fill the space. All of them are clearly starved, the hallow of their cheeks betraying their hunger, given only enough nutrients to feed them, not enough to _thrive._

Some of the women are pregnant, unnaturally round, and lopsided. The hungriest of all, almost skeletons under the weight of their big bellies. Most of them lay on the floor, or slump against walls, unable to move from the burden of their load.

There are many tears. Some curse, some mutter under their breath, others rock back-and-forth. One woman holds her heads in her hands while another stares blankly at the ceiling. Those who are not visibly pregnant are painted black-and-blue, covered in deep bruises of fingers: upon their throats, their shoulders, their arms, and even their legs.

The cellars are warm, thankfully, considering how deep they are beneath the ground. Stalagmites and stalactites cover the walls and ceilings, the rooms damp with moisture and still air. There are steel buckets of water strewn about, here and there, among the women, and some tilt the buckets directly in their mouths to drink, visibly shuddering at the taste.

The caverns smell of sick, waste, and blood. The stench is overwhelming, thicker than smog and powerful enough to make your head spin as you look from person to person. It is not appealing, nor does the blood tempt you, as thick as it is. You want to run far from the crowd, to pretend you do not see, but you are stuck to the ground and forced to observe the full amount of suffering.

You hear a simpering moan, and your eyes scan the group until you find a sickly middle-aged woman writhing in pain, her belly jerking frantically from side to side. Her neighbors back away, their eyes averting as she continues to shake. You want to claw your way towards her, but you cannot move. You are not really in the cavern, and perhaps you never would be. You are merely a fly on the wall, watching unknown to the anguished souls within.

Figures descend on the woman, seemingly out of nowhere, and carry her from the cavern and up a set of long, spiraling stairs. You blink and suddenly you are before her in yet another room. The woman is bound to a long table, held still by thick cloth ropes tied along her chest, around her hands, and finally securing her ankles.

Your father stands before her, no expression in his ruby eyes as he methodically runs a silver knife along her exposed stomach, splitting her open with a ribbon of crimson liquid. You can feel your gut in your throat, heavy as you struggle to even swallow, your own eyes bugging from their sockets as you watch him reach within her to remove her child. She is screaming now, but her voice is losing its momentum, her breath coming out in shaky strokes as the baby’s cord is severed.

Your father lays the infant down on another table, and Ines, his dark-haired counselor, runs a towel over its tiny body, treating it with greater care than is shown to its mother. You turn back towards her like a magnet, uncertain of her fate. She is still whimpering, sweat gleaming on her forehead as she strains against the ropes, trying desperately to reach the infant but coming up short.

With a flick of his wrist, your father summons someone else to her side, their back to you as they bend towards the woman’s neck. You wonder, hopefully, if this means she will be saved. Will they turn her and add her to their ranks? Is that the fate for all those locked in the caverns below? Your father said he would have saved your mother if he had gotten to her neck in time… She is not dead yet, you can hear her heart beating as she begins to still, no longer reaching towards the baby but instead looking up towards the stone ceiling. _It’s now or never_.

She jerks as the vampire’s teeth break into her skin. Your heart soars, desperate, eager to see the transformation, but the vampire does not stop their bite upon her throat. Her eyes close, fluttering under their lids for a second, before going rigid. Her face is pale. Drained.

The vampire stands and turns, wiping blood from their ginger beard with the back of their hand. _Boris_.

You jerk awake with a sudden wave of energy and wait for the relief of reality to wash away the vision.

Relief does not come, for Boris stands at the edge of your bed, his eyes as vivid red as the dream. He holds something in his hands, a length of dark hair and eyes as unmoving as the woman’s.

Geralt.

Geralt’s head dangling – severed from his body.

Geralt, _dead!_

Geralt ripped to pieces, the fire in the hearth raging, his body burning as you slept.

Geralt murdered and unable to come back, destroyed.

Boris waiting for you to wake up before he burns the head, wanting you to know what he did.

You lose yourself in your scream, the shock of your husband’s death hitting you in a tidal wave of grief, terror, and unbridled anger. You are still naked, but care nothing for your modesty as you fling your covers off your body and lunge forward, trying to take the hanging head from the hovering man. You miss and he tosses it into the fire, the sickly-sweet scent filling your nostrils and causing more wrath than you ever thought possible.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” you scream at him, your voice coming out with a terrible gasp as you clamber forward, enraged, and violent.

“I saved you,” he responds, and his grin is wide and unnerving and _oh you want to kill him_ and you can’t believe your husband is dead and you want to scream and cry and –

“SAVED ME?” You lose all sense of control, and barrel into him with all your strength, trying to throw him into the fire with the ashes of your friend.

You fall into the fire yourself as you push him. Searing pain roars up your left leg as it dances with the flames, but you hold your stance and shove Boris’ face against the embers, desperate that it will be enough to end this here and now. You know from witnessing the executions of the vampires you caught conspiring against your father that you need to burn his head in order for him to truly die. You watch as his hair catches aflame and spreads to his forehead, then to his cheeks, cracking his ivory skin and coating it with ash.

He reaches a finger towards you, but you balk away, unwilling to give him the advantage of his painful gift. Letting go gives him enough momentum to fall from the fire with a thud, the right side of his head still ablaze. He does not move, and you wonder if you burned him enough to die or if he is only rendered temporarily disabled.

Adrenaline fills your veins, but it is no longer angry. You tamp down the blaze on your leg with the heavy blanket from your bed, eyes warily on the vampire at your feet. You cannot feel, you can barely observe. You just move in motions that feel too slow and back towards the door, grabbing only a robe and your journal, the important one, from its new home behind your other books. Boris still lays on the ground, motionless and shimmering with little tendrils of flame on his body, more smoke than anything else.

You turn on your heel and run, barefoot, no longer caring what lies behind you, only urging yourself to move, move, _move_ towards the entrance hall.

Someone calls your name, but you ignore it as you push open the mountain doors and sprint into twilight, running faster than you ever have before. You plunge into the forest and do not stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Reader has a vision of human women imprisoned in the mountain and forced to get pregnant. These women are killed by the vampires after giving birth, contradicting the narrative reader's father painted in chapter 8, where reader is solely responsible for her mother's death. Reader wakes up from this vision to find her husband, Geralt, has been killed in the night by Boris. Reader attacks Boris and pushes him into the fire he used to burn her husband's body, and burns her leg. Boris tries to use his vampire gift of violence (referred to as the "invisible knife" in other chapters) against reader but she manages to get away. Boris falls on the ground and does not move. Reader flees the mountain with only a robe and her secret journal.


	13. Portland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hello there canon characters! I'm so excited for y'all to finally interact with some people from the books. Hopefully I will do our lovely book characters justice. <3 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter, felt pretty innocent to me. I am really eager to hear your thoughts. Also, I have a discord and twitter where I talk about this fic sometimes. I'll link at the end? I also post recommendations there fairly often!
> 
> Thanks to Slow_Lorax for her detailed review of each chapter, but especially this one. She does the most.
> 
> FAIR WARNING that chapters are going to start getting a lot longer. I've been averaging 3500-6000 words per chapter from here on out. I'm not saying there will never be a short chapter again, I just have a lot to say now that we are out of the introductory phase of the story. Sorry not sorry! =)

**Chapter Thirteen - Portland**

The nearest city, Portland, is at most an hour away full speed. You let your instincts guide you as you run through the woods. You pass glistening waterfalls that trail rivulets down jagged rockfaces and rush by roaring rivers, covered in fallen trees and thousands of stones. A thick cloudbank rests across the mountain ridges, but you ignore it as you race past the towering pines and towards civilization.

Humanity is foreign to you, your interactions with people have been limited to just before their untimely deaths, so you haven’t had much of chance to observe their behavior. Still, you know that the city offers the protection of the public eye – your coven would not be eager to confront you in a crowd.

Eventually you find a long road, stretching far from side to side. You veer west and follow the pavement until forest turns into buildings. You are thankful it is still early in the day. The speed that humans run is unknown to you, but you’re sure it is not the near-blur pace that you allow for yourself now. You’ll have to slow down soon.

When you finally hit city limits, you slow to a snail’s pace and allow yourself to breathe. Images flood your mind, overwhelming you with their vibrancy, too real against your pounding chest. You do not resist their pull, letting them play against your eyes like a reel.

Geralt’s first eager kiss, cold against you but sweet, and the final longing graze of lips against lips as you stumble into sleep, relieved. You long for another, even if just one more, just so you can convey how fiercely your blood burns for the comforting touch. He made you feel safe, _cherished,_ hopeful. A future worth choosing, a love you knew would grow from friendship to something more.

You walk along an aisle, matching his stare with your own innocence, confused but thankful. cling to him, care for him, _want him._ Let the minutes tick by as you creep closer to bed, closer to each other, to unity. You want to conceive tonight; you even timed the ceremony with the fertile crest of your cycle. The sooner the twins are born, the more content you can be.

Could you be pregnant? Now that you have lain together, become man and wife, joined as one? This is your last thought before sleep seduces you, though nightmares soon follow its attentive caress. You are not safe in dreams, the wailing women, sick and in distress, carve into your mind even now.

You see their hallow eyes, their sunken cheeks, and their putrid existence. Living only to die. You now see the grim reality of your choice, though it is not clear what changed. What determines this future? Your husband’s death? Geralt. _You remember Geralt_. You see him lifeless, _burning_ , dead.

Stolen, sliced away, neck from body, hanging from thick fingers. Tossed carelessly in the fire, _your fire_ , your hearth. You shudder at the memory of laying each rock upon the mantle, a neat row of smooth stone. Each choice would lead to the next and next and _next_ and you would be happy together.

_Your twins_ , grinning from ear to ear, full of love and life and promise and hope. Your children, together, you and Geralt, husband and wife, _mother and father_ , joined for eternity to raise a new world. _One full of pain and suffering and torture and hunger and –_

Women dead, used only for birth and nothing more, drained, emptied, and tossed aside as babies cry and vampires roam and the world fears –

Is this the world you chose? Is this the world you move so carelessly towards? For what? Contentment? Is your joy really worth their sacrifice? You do not fear death, you fear making the wrong choice. Pain made by your decisions in your personal hell.

Did Geralt feel pain when he died? He was not weak, you know that, he could fend for himself and others, surely – yet he is still gone, ash and dust and nothing more. Did Boris strike him with his invisible knife, the one he has been gifted in his painful touch, bearing into his nerves before ripping his head from his body?

Your blood boils and your hands twitch, knuckles cracking as you fall to your knees and pound the pavement with your fury. You want to close your fingers on the murderer’s throat, cleave his body in two like he shattered your heart. You growl as you rock back and forth on the sidewalk, rage curling the fibers of your soul.

Logically you know Boris is not dead – only stunned by the fire, capable of returning to himself as long as he was not burned. You did not stick around long enough to dispose of him, you were in too much pain yourself, a lick of flame scorching your leg.

You stop shaking long enough to inspect the limb beneath your thick robe. The sight of it, blackened and raw, catches in your throat just as the ache slams back into your senses. Shock is no longer a factor, adrenaline slipping away with each heavy breath. Dry blood clings to the wound, though in some sections it still threatens beneath purple and blue skin. It curdles into itself, and it _stinks_. The stench surely following you through the woods, a big X on the map for your guards, your coven, your father, _even Boris_.

You cannot stay here, alone, and vulnerable, just waiting to be tracked, but you do not know where to go. You do not where to turn now that you have reached the city. Running was the only logical choice, survival more important than secrecy.

You push yourself up from the ground, tenderly now that the bellow of your wound sears into your every step. _Stupid, insolent girl_ , you tell yourself as you begin the trek towards the horizon of buildings. _Moronic, thoughtless, danger to yourself and others._

You want only to curl up and cry, but rage and fear and anxiety carry you forward, step by painful step. Where will you go? You have no money, nor did you ever have the need for such trivial, human things. The coven takes care of itself, self-sustaining from all corners. You cannot buy a bus pass or hail a cab or ride a train or drive a car without money – not that you know much on how to do any of those things, only know about each method of transportation from vague descriptions from your dearest friend, Calia.

_Calia_. Her name clings to your throat and pulls you from the indulgence of pity. You left her behind, ignored the call of your name and gave her a wicked mess to clean - the battle with Boris surely a sight to behold. Was she safe in the mountain? Did they find Boris before he healed? Geralt’s body was gone by the time you left – all evidence of the vampire’s crime turned to soot. Would he confess? Or worse, would they blame you?

Are stories of your attack upon the man circulating even now? What does the coven think? They would only have his word for it, not yours, and you’re not sure you want to know what lies he might spin once he comes back to himself. How would he explain your absence? What about Geralt? There were witnesses to your flight. Calia saw you flee alone.

You stop, suddenly, turning wildly around in a desperate hope that maybe you would spot her trailing you, waiting for you to make the first move.

Her wrinkled features escape you, and you cannot smell anything beyond your own stench. It strikes you that for the first time in your life you are truly, utterly _alone_. No friend, no companion, no husband, _nothing but yourself in a strange city_.

“Nice going, idiot…” you murmur to yourself and turn back to the skyline once more, the buildings closer than ever. What is your plan for when you arrive? Wander around hopelessly? Steal a car and suddenly learn to drive? Ha, like that would work. You barely know how vehicles operate. You strain your memory for any hint – something about gas? A wheel to turn the beast? It’s a dumb idea and you would have better luck riding an elk through the forest than driving a car on the highway.

The sun is much higher on the horizon now, and you are grateful your skin does not sparkle. You can hardly walk, let alone hide until it is dull enough outside to move. You know you must look ridiculous with your bedhead and long, white robe – a journal sticking awkwardly from the pocket. You wonder numbly if you could steal some clothes from a store? That would at least help you fit in among a crowd.

It takes another twenty minutes of your measured march before you come across your first human. Surely you must have run past them in your haste along the highway, but you hadn’t noticed anyone until now. A tall man in a crisp suit turns his black vehicle into the parking lot in front of you. The car is glossy and reflective in the morning light, with the words _C300_ written on it. You watch him park, warily, as you continue your determined, albeit slow, pace forward. Another car circles the tan building and then pulls up next to him. A young woman in a pleated skirt, shaking heels, and a slightly wrinkled dress shirt opens her car door as the man opens his.

It isn’t until they greet each other, smiling in their good cheer that you realize you stopped to stare, gawking at their exchange. The scent of their blood is stronger than your own, and you wait for the familiar lurch of thirst to hit your gut. But it doesn’t come – you see the thin faces of the women in your dreams instead. You feel their suffering so acutely you almost collapse.

You shut your eyes, waiting again for the lust for their throats, but it does not come. The chatting pair is gone by the time you risk another look, and you shrug forward, away from any possible temptation.

The walk to the city is a lonely curiosity. Why did their blood not call your name? You are thirsty, you know that, and you expected yourself to want to cave, to break your promise to not feed from a human. You cannot hunt here – the city is too full of eyes, especially at this hour, and there is no large game to be found. Your stomach rolls, its emptiness calling your name, but not for them, not for the people who pass you at an ever-increasing rate.

The day wears on and you grow desperate. Where will you go? You do not want to stay here, in this city, so close to the coven and so easily tracked. You sit on a bench on a busy street and watch the world pass by. Nobody seems to notice you, or maybe they just don’t care enough to stop.

A man, dressed in a strange uniform, black with gold lettering and a little odd-shaped oval displayed on the chest, walks up to the wooden post by your bench. He sports a thick mustache on his pale face, and his dark brown eyes look bloodshot beneath thick brows. You watch him idly as he takes a sheet of paper and sticks it to the post with something metal.

Your eyes narrow in on the sheet, thick letters on its header scream at the world: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY? Below the words is a crisp photo of a surly looking man. Not a boy, surely, he looks even older than Geralt when he was turned.

_Geralt._ You swallow, the name attacking your throat, similar to how Calia’s hit you before, threatening to drown you in memories again. You can’t seem to look away from the boy, his gaze intense even in paper-format. Something seems so _familiar_ about him, but you can’t put your finger on it. You swallow, heavier this time, trying to understand what strikes his features as recognizable.

Then it hits you – it’s not his eyes you see, but the dark brown, almost black gaze of another. _Someone he knows_. The connection is sudden, but solid, and the visions come flooding back to you, knocking you off the bench and onto the ground with a sudden wave. You don’t hear the pavement crack.

The wooden wolf, light around your neck but oh so precious. The murmur of a voice, calling your name, whispering to you in the night, holding you close. Quick, frantic heartbeats against your ears, warmth radiating from all around you. Jacob Black, the boy on the poster, staring at you with a strange expression, tilting his head as you look back at him, several others behind him –

“Can you hear me?” A voice echoes through the tunnel of your mind – interrupting the odd staring contest you were having with the angry looking man.

“Charlie?” another voice calls, this one even louder and accompanied by a strange sliding sound. “Charlie, get away from her –”

“She’s hurt, Billy…”

“I don’t care if she’s hurt, she’s –”

“Shut up! Help me roll her over…”

“That’s not a good idea!”

You let out a long, shuddering groan and open your eyes slowly as a pair of warm hands rolls you to your back. Light floods your senses and you meet the gaze of another pair of dark eyes beneath a large hat. The man stops his scolding mid-sentence, studying you with the same sort of expression as the boy from the poster. You blink back at him, your voice lost in your gut.

The same hands as before try to move to your leg, but you recoil away, too quickly, causing the man in the rolling chair to narrow his eyes suspiciously once more.

“Charlie, get away –” he repeats, his low voice stern as he holds something up in the air towards you. A silver contraption, with a lever in the front and the same metal things that held the poster glinting from its mouth.

“Don’t be stupid, she’s not dangerous!” The first man clearly loses his patience towards the second in that moment and snatches the contraption away. “And what good will a staple-gun do to anyone _compared to my actual gun, you incredible buffoon_.”

“I… I didn’t think about that…” Said buffoon confesses, his eyes still narrow even without his makeshift weapon. You wonder how you can escape the pair of humans, bickering like an old married couple before you. You begin to search for the best path, but the first man’s hands are on your leg again, trying to examine the blackened flesh. You pull it away with a groan, hiding the limb beneath your robe.

“I just want to look, miss…” he insists, trying to reach again but you push yourself away. Your head is still heavy from your fall, and the world shifts around you, colors spinning before your eyes. Looking down at the pavement doesn’t help you stabilize yourself, but you do see the large crack leftover from your descent. You must have tried to brace yourself. _Woops_.

“No.” You manage as soon as your vision rights itself. They both stop arguing long enough to look at you.

“She speaks!” The first man is exultant as he leans forward, still kneeling at your feet. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

“If you insist on helping, we should take her to the reservation, Charlie.” The second man addresses the first. You realize the first man must be Charlie.

“Are you serious? Billy, that’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive and she needs to go to the hospital!” Charlie snaps back. You look between him and the second man – Billy, with confusion.

“Reservation?” you ask, suspicion lacing your voice as you meet one brown gaze and then another. They both turn back to you, remembering the source of their newest argument.

“We need to take you to my tribe’s reservation in La Push, Washington. We’re only here because Charlie insisted we hang up these posters of my missing boy,” Billy explains, indicating a stack of papers in his lap you hadn’t noticed before, his voice obviously wary. “If you would come with us, we have a nurse there who could look at you…”

“She needs a hospital, not a nurse –”

“Can you please trust me, Charlie?” Billy practically roars this last sentence, staring his companion down with an intense gaze. You and Charlie wrinkle your brow at the same time, taken back by the heat behind his words.

“I – I can’t just take a stranger to a city almost five hours away just because you ask me to trust you – and besides, she is out of my jurisdiction…”

“Charlie –” Billy warns again, but Charlie continues unfettered.

“She is obviously hurt, even if she won’t show me her injuries – and you saw her fall from the bench, same as me. There’s something wrong and we need to know –”

Billy interrupts this time, turning to you. “Do you know where you are?”

“Portland,” you respond curtly, unwilling to look away.

“And how did you get to Portland?”

“Ran...” you confess, hoping you could will your eyes away from his, but your gaze is locked, unyielding.

“You ran? On that leg? From where?” Astonishment clouds Charlie’s voice as he examines you, his features contorting with a thousand different questions. You do not answer.

“What happened to your leg?” Billy asks, his voice sterner by the minute.

“Fell into a fire.” At least it’s not a total lie. You don’t want to tell the pair about the attack. That would cause too many questions, and you aren’t about to reveal the entire supernatural world to a couple of strange men in a city you do not know. Charlie is gasping up air, trying to speak but Billy is ignoring him as he continues his interrogation.

“What kind of fire? Did someone push you?”

You do not answer. He tries a different tactic.

“Can you walk on it?”

You nod, growing tired of the never-ending questions.

“That’s good at least. Can you tell us your name?”

You share it, too quickly to understand. They ask you to repeat it, and you do so, slower this time.

“How old are you?” Charlie asks this time, his voice kinder than his friend.

“Seventeen,” you respond, thankful your age currently matches your looks. You have only been fully grown for ten years, after all. Your eighteenth birthday is just around the corner, anyway, though who knows how you could possibly celebrate it now? You will probably always have to tell mortals you are eighteen.

“Where’s your parents?” Charlie’s voice is full of concern, less worried now that you don’t seem to be in any imminent danger. You feel the anchor of shame you always feel when you think of your mother, but you try to hide it from your features.

“My mother’s dead,” you offer, trying to look anywhere but his brown eyes, wrinkled in pity now.

“I’m sorry to hear that… what about your dad?”

You shake your head, refusing to respond to this one. Both men look at you with sudden understanding, as if your lack of response tells them everything they need to know. Charlie bends down again, studying your face with careful scrutiny. “Did he do this to you?”

“No,” you answer quietly, trying to look away but he reaches forward and grabs your chin, gently, forcing you to look at him.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, and you can tell he is trying to be patient. You feel some relief at this, and wonder, for a crazy, fleeting second, if these two humans could help you somehow. You almost laugh at loud at the thought. Two men, one in a chair and one with a silly mustache, a match against _Boris?_ Or your father for that matter? They would be lunch in seconds.

Still, they are kind, and you do need to leave the city. Maybe this reservation would buy you some time. You can’t shake the feeling that the boy in the poster is connected to the man in your visions. The thought consumes you for a second.

“I’ll go to the reservation,” you decide, looking between them. Charlie is confused but Billy looks proud, probably from the fact your decision means he wins their argument.

“Now I can’t just take you to another state without your parent’s permission…”

You laugh, a real laugh this time. Your attitude starts to creep up, the kind you only get when your father tries to get you to do something you don’t want to do.

“I’m out here, alone, _and injured_ , and you worry about my parents? My father might as well be dead, for all the good he has done me.” You are still laughing. Technically your father is dead… well, undead, and beyond the jurisdiction of humanity anyway.

“Look,” you continue once the laughter passes, “I need to leave. The _person_ who did this to me will _find me if I don’t leave and finish me off for good this time_. I’d rather not be a sitting duck when that happens. If going to this reservation means my leg can be looked at and I can get away from here, then I’ll do it.”

“She’s clearly a teenager, Charlie, but she seems rather independent,” Billy said, bemused, “You can worry about jurisdiction when we get back home. Besides, you have enough runaways to think about for one day.” You know he is talking about the missing boy posters, the reason they’re in the city in the first place. You do not pry; you are sure if you wait long enough, they’ll explain Jacob Black.

“Okay…” Charlie finally comes to a decision, nodding his head astutely. “But it’s your head if this gets me in trouble.” He finishes, throwing a scolding look at his friend.

“It’s all our heads if this gets us in trouble,” Billy agrees, beginning to roll his chair away from you. Charlie shakes his head and offers you a careful arm. You take it and pull yourself up onto your feet. It will be nice to rest your leg, and you’re really curious about the car. Is it fast? Can you outrun it? Probably, you’re extremely quick, but you are in no state to keep running… You’ll have to explore that question later.

You try to smile when you reach the car and Charlie opens the back door. The side of the vehicle reads “Forks Police”. You know vaguely of the police, too – they are some sort of human guard. Something tells you this police guard is more like Geralt or Calia, though, and not Boris.

“Thanks,” you offer as you slide carefully into the car and sit back in the seat. Maybe there is hope for you after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested -
> 
> My discord: https://discord.gg/FZAj5ah  
> My twitter: https://www.twitter.com/MPAWssible


	14. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this chapter! I had several auditions and a couple of photoshoots this week so I have been very busy. I am excited for you guys to read this one! 
> 
> Minor violence, but nothing serious for this installment. Hopefully you'll be happy with it!
> 
> Thank you to Slow_Lorax for your careful review of the chapter. Always helpful and necessary. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter Fourteen - Gravity**

The drive is long and fascinating, the car cruising slower than your running pace but faster than the measured trek you were making in the city. The men keep a never-ending stream of commentary between them, mostly Billy, as he seems to gossip away like a schoolboy, telling Charlie about this drama and that back at his reservation. You half-listen as you reflect on your day, taking careful steps to avoid thinking about Geralt’s murder _again_. You’ll let that memory simmer for now and worry about it when you are far away from the scene of the crime.

You occasionally catch a concerned gaze in the rearview mirror, the view slightly obscured by thick glass between the front seats and the back. You don’t know why it’s blocked, but you don’t question it, not wanting either man to know how ignorant you truly are of human customs.

You are confident your scent will not follow you in the vehicle. Someone might be able to track you to the bench, but that would likely be it as the scent wouldn’t follow the car. Too much metal and oil and gas. You hope nobody pays any attention to Jacob Black’s poster. Why would they? It didn’t stand out against the hundred fliers stuck to the post. They might as well look for Nancy’s missing cat while they’re at it. Nothing would follow you purely based on his scowling face. You know travelling across the state will buy you some time at least, and nobody you know in the coven is a tracker.

You do feel guilty about Calia, though, alone in the mountain without you. She has other friends, of course, not limiting her social life to just you as you had done to her. You are grateful for it; you learned a lot more about the coven than you would have otherwise. Your father’s long explanation in the library last month was one of the few times he’s ever chosen to share information with you.

You must have dozed off after a while, tired as you were from the run into the city. When you wake again, the trees are lush and green and entirely different than the ones in your forest. You wonder if the two are connected. Could you travel back to the mountain from these woods? The thought scares you a bit – if you can get home from here, then they could get here from there. You’d have to look at a map and check.

All you really know about Washington is that it is directly North of Oregon. You don’t know where La Push is, or Forks. You just know what the human duo has told you, that it was almost five hours from Portland. A good few hours even at vampire speed from the mountain, at least.

Plus, it is so unbearably bright outside that the vampires can only travel at night. It isn't always this sunny, but this summer has been a relatively clear one. You have some time before you have to worry about anyone even leaving the mountain to try to find you, let alone figure out that you have left the state.

“We should take her to the hospital.”

Charlie and Billy are arguing again, reigniting the same spat from before. Charlie seems to have a renewed determination now that they are in his home turf. Billy shakes his head stubbornly at the suggestion.

“Sue can fix her up. She takes care of all the boys just fine, thank you, and I rather have her at the reservation.”

“Why? That doesn’t make any sense – and I still need to question her about her attack. Even if it’s out of my jurisdiction, I have a duty to report it…”

You grow sick of the argument, and make a show of yawning yourself awake, hoping to distract them. It works, they both glance back at you through the glass, concern sketching across each face.

“I agreed to the reservation, sir, not a hospital,” you say.

Billy laughs at this comment where Charlie glowers, obviously upset that you won’t take _his_ side. You do not think you could stand a human hospital; they would try to take your blood and realize that it’s not quite right. The nurse would be bad enough as it is, but at least she likely wouldn’t have a bunch of fancy equipment that screamed _not fully human_ in big flashing letters.

You risk a glance at your leg again and realize it’s not much better than before. Your speed healing doesn’t seem to be doing much for you this time around. Is it because the damage was caused by a fire? Flame seems to do something to your body that nothing else has managed before. You don’t know why it’s more dangerous, but you don’t like it one bit.

The sudden lurch of the car as it stops pulls you from your thoughts. You quickly cover your leg and wait while the two men unbuckle themselves. You don’t know if your door opens from the inside, but if the car is for the police guard, it probably is built to keep its passengers in. That would be logical, at least.

It’s dusk now, the sun quickly fading behind the canopy of the nearby forest. You eye its depths warily, almost expecting to see a set of ruby eyes among its limbs, but nothing moves. A small, gray house sits unobtrusively in the clearing. Its windows are dimly lit and obviously cheery with little flowers peeking from the sills. There is large half-covered porch in the front, white paint peeling and worn from years of use. It is so very different from your mountain, and you wonder curiously if this is how all humans live. Quaint homes in woods, clearly welcoming and not hidden at all.

Calia lived in a different type of home, you remember. It sounded a lot more sterile than this place. You are happy you don’t have to go someplace like that instead.

“Charlie? Billy?” A woman steps onto the porch just as the men she called exit the vehicle. She is beautiful. Cropped black hair falls neatly along her shoulders and she sports a smile on her tan face, her eyes glinting mischievously towards them. Charlie steps around the vehicle to your door, opening it for you while another, rougher voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“STOP!”

You do not move, though you were already midway through your climb from the car, balancing on your non-injured leg a little unsteadily. The three humans snap their heads in the direction of the voice. You hear many pairs of faint footsteps as a sizable group of people emerges from the tree line. They weren’t there a second ago…

They don’t smell quite right, you think. There is something off in their aroma, though it is not unpleasant, just unusual. You smell blood, yes, but also something else. Something woodsy and odd.

“Get away from that thing…” The voice repeats again, this time much closer than before. The speaker is taller than the others, though his tan skin is similar to theirs and his muscles are as firm and pronounced as the rest. His black eyes furrow as they glower into your own. Confusion grips your gut, you are unsure if you should be afraid of the way he stalks towards you, or angry that he called you a _thing_.

Several voices start at once in response to his command.

“What do you mean by thing? She’s not a thing—” Charlie is quick to come to your defense.

“I don’t think she’s a threat, Sam. I mean look at her leg…” Billy follows up quickly.

“Is she okay? Do you need me to look at her?” The beautiful woman on the porch now.

“You better move, Charlie…” One of the angry men from the forest.

You fall back into your seat, still unsure, as Charlie stands defiantly in front of the giant man, blocking him from getting to you. The man seems to shake with fury, his eyes still locked on yours.

“She’s hurt, Sam. I need Sue to look –”

The one named Sam cuts him off, finally pushing him out of the way to pull you unceremoniously from the car. He dumps you on the ground in front of him, and you find yourself being circled by the group like a pack of angry animals…

You gasp as you fall onto your leg, pain shooting up the burn as gravel digs into every inch of your body. You feel overly aware of your nakedness beneath the robe and pull your legs together so that nobody can catch a glimpse of you.

“What are you?” Sam demands, his eyes unfriendly as he glowers above you. You don’t know how to answer, how to _explain_ without giving away your true identity. You blink up at him and shake your head. This seems to only make him angrier, the others following in his steed.

“Sam…” Billy’s voice is a crisp and angry, unhappy with the sudden turn of events. You want to turn your head and send him a thankful glance, but you are too afraid to do anything but stare back at the crowd, anxiety drumming a never-ending beatbeatbeat into your frantic heart.

Sam ignores his name, and descends on you again, lifting you in his arms as though you are lighter than a feather. You consider attacking him, eyes singling in on his jugular as he shakes you heavily. Charlie screams his name, but he continues on.

“WHAT ARE YOU?”

You bite back a whimper, the screaming overwhelming you to the point that you can only resort to one physical response. Hot water strikes the corners of your eyes and spills onto your cheeks, cascading down your face and making you look as pathetic as you feel. This shocks the man enough, as he drops you, again, on your leg and backs away in confusion.

“Are you…?” His voice cuts off, his gaze locking with Charlie’s again. “Billy? Care to explain?”

Billy pushes himself through the group, his face still visibly angry, and comes to a stop at Sam’s feet.

“I thought the same thing too when I saw her, but I don’t think she’s dangerous…” The two share a look of understanding, finally seeing eye-to-eye, and Sam backs away completely now.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks, his voice still cold but at least no longer as sharp as a knife.

“Injured. Fell into a fire, she says. Pushed, we think. I don’t know, I need Sue to examine her and then we can consult with the rest of the council.”

“Does she need help?”  
  
“You might as well help her; you dropped her enough times. I’m sure _that_ didn’t help.”

This time the look Sam throws you is curious, not angry. He glances around, looking at the group.

“Embry, can you take her in? Leah, go tell Paul and Quil and have them come back here. I should call Emily and tell her to stop worrying. I ran out during dinner…” His voice is a little sheepish at that last bit, and you wonder curiously if Emily is his mate. You don’t have much time to think about it, though, as a slightly shorter man scoops you up in his arms and begins to carry you to the house.

“Jesus, she’s burning up, Sam.” He exclaims, and you flush red, hoping to the heavens above that they would just write it off as a bad fever. The man carrying you doesn’t seem to be any colder than you as he presses you against his bare chest. He might even be hotter, though he is not sweaty by any means. You’re starting to not understand temperatures at all. What exactly does a normal human run at? 100? Maybe you’re all sick.

You’re thankful your robe does not slip during your journey into the house. Someone has already cleared the kitchen table, and the one named Embry lays you on it with great care. You clutch your robe tighter as the group piles in behind you, the beautiful woman at the helm.

“Can you take off your robe?” she asks you, her voice soft as she grabs a set of tools from her kitchen cabinet. You shake your head, staring at the men gathered around you, unsure.

“Oh…” Her voice is full of understanding as she realizes how little you are actually wearing. She turns to the group, her voice stern. “Out! Get out! All of you.”

“What?”

“Are you kidding?”

“We can’t leave you alone with that thing –”

“Will you stop calling her a thing and get out so Sue can do her job?” Always kind Charlie. You are really starting to like him.

The beautiful woman, Sue, gives the group a motherly smile and tries to wave them out. They all continue their protest as another person enters the room. A young woman, with chin-length raven hair and a permanent scowl. She smiles when she sees Sue, but then the frown returns full force. You realize this must be the Leah that Sam had addressed moments before.

“You heard her. Get out, all of you!” She stands resolutely by the door, arms crossed as the boys finally give up their protests and scurry into the yard, Charlie and Billy in the back, closing the front door behind them and guarding it from the rest of the group.

You are grateful that it’s just women with you now. Sue looks at you expectantly, and you finally move your hands down to the tie of your robe, taking your time to unwrap it and remove the thick fabric from your body. You shiver as the two of them take in your naked form.

You are still a little bruised from the attack, but it is nothing compared to the burnt flesh of your leg. Sue examines it slowly, gloved fingers pressing gently at ridges or testing to see if any blood is still trickling from parts. She clucks her tongue every so often, each area worse than the last as she gets closer to where you fell the hardest. Your thigh is covered in angry, red welts. It feels like a miracle you managed to run from the mountain at all, let alone walk through half of Portland.

She turns to Leah and murmurs instructions quickly. You don’t bother listening; you just stare at her as she works, her dark eyes so kind towards yours. It reminds you of Calia, and you feel guilty again. Calia can take care of herself, but you still shouldn’t have abandoned her. She was your dearest friend, and always took care of you. You should have insisted she come along.

You know, rationally, though, she probably wouldn’t be able to be around humans. Though she only drinks _leftovers_ , she still relies on human blood as her primary source of diet. You wouldn’t have been able to come with the two men if she had been there. It would have been too dangerous for them.

The thought of blood makes your stomach gurgle, and you realize how unashamedly _hungry_ you are. Leah seems to catch the sound, but she doesn’t say anything. She just shoves a long object under your tongue and waits patiently until it makes a small beep. You jump, unsure about the noise, but she just removes the object and shows it to Sue. They exchange worried looks.

Once the examination is complete, and Sue examines _everywhere_ , she speaks to Leah again with even more instructions. Your head feels dizzy, between the throbbing ache of your leg, the hollow thirst, and a loud argument drifting in from outside. You don’t know how much longer you’ll last before you want to sleep again.

Leah returns with a pile of clothes and a glass of water. She doesn’t speak to you as she helps you dress, this time with proper underwear, a large t-shirt, and a pair of shorts. You drink the water apprehensively, surprised when it washes down just fine and feels almost refreshing. Your stomach gurgles again, and you smile apologetically. It had been too long.

“What do you like to eat?” Sue asks, her warm voice washing over you and making you feel more relaxed than you had all day. You don’t know the answer to that question. You don’t know if you can eat human food, but it doesn’t hurt to try. You shrug.

“Anything, I guess.” You could go for a deer right now, but you didn’t want to tell them that. What kind of human girl hunts a deer for a meal? They’d probably think you were crazy, if not suspect more.

“Leah, can you heat up the leftover steak? Maybe throw in some green beans, too.”

The girl nods and moves to the fridge, pulling this and that out as she starts to prepare your food. Sue leans towards you, a smile still on her face.

“Your leg is in quite a state, but after you eat, we can get you washed up and apply some salve and wraps. It doesn’t look like it did any permanent damage. You might have some scarring, but you should be able to walk.”

You nod, numbly, thankful that she at least had a plan for your treatment. Another machine beeps, and suddenly Leah is before you with a plate of hot food. You look down at it, curiously, unsure how exactly you are supposed to eat it.

She hands you a couple of metal tools, a fork and knife, you remember from Calia’s teachings, and you grip them oddly in your hands. The pair of women watch you, curiously, as you try to spear the steak. You wish you knew more about human customs; this is beginning to look suspicious.

Sue just laughs at your ineptitude and leans forward to cut the meat for you.

“You cut it up along here,” She explains, pointing out each ridge as she runs the knife along the flesh, “and once the pieces are small enough, you can eat them with the fork.” You nod, still a little confused. You try for another minute and are eventually able to get the meat on the fork and in your mouth.

It tastes better than you could have ever hoped. Still a bit bloody, despite no longer being fresh, and pleasantly tangy. You revel in each bite and inhale the rest of the plate without any further questions. Your stomach feels full, finally satisfied after weeks of barely eating. Human food is not so bad, after all. You are amazed you can ingest it. One of the perks of being half-human, you guess.

The pair of women wait until you finish eating to ask you anymore questions. Leah removes the plate, and Sue takes your right hand with a gentle lift of her own. You allow it without protest, basking in the feeling of being full and the overwhelming kindness they are showing you.

“Now, dear. I need to know, and this is very important, okay?”

You blink lazily, wondering what she is so pressed on about.

Sue continues, “What exactly are you? This might sound crazy, I know that, but we really need to understand. Are you a vampire?”

You gulp, almost pulling your hand out of hers but relaxing as she squeezes it a little tighter, her gaze unmoving.

“H- H- How do you know about th – I mean, what are you talking about?” You try to catch yourself, but reality is already setting in. She knows, somehow, someway – she knows about vampires. She gives you a reassuring smile, and you swallow heavily, catching your breath.

“I… sort of. I’m not _fully_ vampire, if that’s what you mean,” you explain, your voice a rush as you decide to trust her, even if it means telling your secret. “My father is a vampire. My mother was human… but she… um, well, what I mean is…” Tears poke at your eyes again, but you ignore them, gathering strength to go on. “She died when giving birth to me.” You finish lamely, pulling your gaze away to look at anything but the kind women in front of you. Leah’s mouth is open, stunned, but Sue just nods understandingly.

“I am so sorry to hear that,” she says your name, softly, and brings her other hand up to clasp yours with careful comfort. “Losing a parent is never easy. We lost my Harry just this year. Seth and Leah have been very brave in their grief, but I know even they struggle.”

Real tears fall from your face, and you want nothing more but to lean forward and hug the beautiful nurse, who has been wonderful and lovely and accommodating. You start to move, only to be cut off by an angry roar just outside the door.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU TOOK IT INSIDE? DON’T YOU KNOW HOW DANGEROUS IT MIGHT BE?”

“Paul, wait!”

“Paul, man, it’s okay, she spent hours with Charlie and Billy –”

“Paul, you can’t go in there!”

“WATCH ME!”

The door slams open, nearly coming off its hinges in the force of the movement. A giant man stalks through the frame, as tall as Sam, and muscles even more tightly defined. His face is contorted in pure rage as he shakes, you wearily bring your eyes up to meet his and –

_gravity_

_you are flung through the far reaches of time and space and brought back to earth_

_the world spins, halts, tilts backwards and forwards, then begins a sharp rotation once more_

_chocolate eyes glaze over as you stare_

_all else forgotten_

_everything forgotten_

_nothing matters except this gravity_

_knocking you back into time and space and slamming your souls together_

It is the man from your visions, the one you have dreamed of for years. He stands before you, jaw dropped and eyes looking into every corner of your soul. You feel a rushing wave of emotion, but you aren’t sure if it’s from you or him or something else entirely. Fury, confusion, hope, lust, love, grief, fear.

Slowly the earth returns to normal. The man is on his knees, staring you down. The world is silent as the rest of the group rushes in, looking between you and the giant, your eyes still locked together.

It feels like forever before you can hear again. And then the eyes tear themselves away, and one solitary curse word flies from the man’s lips.

“Fuck!”

He leaps up from his position on the floor, turns on his heel, and runs from the house. You collapse back into your chair, unsure and afraid. In the distance, you hear howling.


	15. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, but lots of canon character shenanigan's. I'm really enjoying writing them to be honest. I hope y'all enjoy this one.
> 
> Slow_Lorax beta'd as always. Thank you <3
> 
> Fair warning that Chapter Sixteen may not be released for a bit. I have been very busy and haven't had time to write this week. Will get it out as soon as I can!

**Chapter Fifteen – Questions**

Your emotions twist together and expand with each breath. You focus on each desperate inhale and exhale, confusion and relief and uncertainty and longing twisting into a web deep within the cavern of your body. You are torn between running through the door after the giant man and collapsing into yourself.

Eleven set of eyes stare you down, crowded into every corner of the small kitchen, each face displaying its own portrayal of shock. Self-consciousness floods your veins, your face flaring a bright red as blood rushes behind your own features. You blink just to have something to do while the crowd composes itself, feeling more like an animal on display with every passing second.

It’s Sam who speaks first, his voice deep and commanding.

“Jared, Embry - follow him.”

Two of the men, one being the lanky thing from before, the other a well-built man with soft features, extract themselves from the group and move silently through the open door. You watch them disappear back into the tree line, running too quickly for humans.

You start to doubt everything you have ever been taught about the mortal world. Was Calia simply mistaken? Too far removed from her humanity to remember the truth about people? You want to throw up, your heart still beating a furious rhythm against your ribs. Your gut curls in on itself and you clamp a hand on your mouth, willing the bile back down your throat.

Sam is still talking, addressing various people in the room.

“Charlie, I think it’s best if you go home for the night. We can handle it from here.”

You watch Charlie swallow, looking from person to person then to you. You try to give him a reassuring look, but you aren’t sure if it comes off as sincere. You are starting to feel a little afraid despite a comforting hand rubbing circles into your back. A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Sue, and you try to relax into her touch, but it’s hard as your body shakes in its anxiety.

“It’s okay, Charlie,” Sue murmurs from behind you. “She’ll be safe with us.”

Charlie gives a curt nod and gives you another searching look.

“I’d like to see her at the station after she recovers, then… I have a lot of questions.” He takes a cautious step towards the door then turns back suddenly. “Behave yourself, young man.”

Sam responds with a tense smile and watches the police guard exit, his eyes not leaving the retreating figure until he situates himself back into the vehicle, turns it on, and drives down the winding road.

You wring your hands and look at your shuffling feet, feeling uneasy now that Charlie has left. Billy wheels towards the table, stopping inches from your knees. He says your name, his voice surprisingly cheery.

“I know you must be exhausted, but we have a few questions for you.”

You nod dully, still wary of the way the rest of the group stares at you.

“We mean you no harm.” Sam speaks this time, and you tilt your head up to stare at him. Wasn’t this the same man screaming at you in the clearing earlier? Didn’t he shake you and drop you without a second thought just an hour before? You could have sworn he read your mind as he continues.

“We’re sorry for how we acted earlier… We’ve never met anyone like you before, and well, we were caught off guard. We hope you can forgive us with time.” He gives you a cautious smile, and you realize he is being sincere. You aren’t sure what changed in the little time since you arrived, but you shrug your shoulders in quiet assent.

“So, you’re a vampire hybrid?” another voice asks eagerly, a lopsided grin on a boyish face. You knit your brow with confusion, glancing at Leah who stands, arms crossed, by the sink, a scowl still on her otherwise pretty features.

“We heard you,” another boy explains, this one more heavyset, his round face twisted in a similar grin. You could have sworn you spoke softly. Have humans developed super-hearing now too? The vampires had gotten so much wrong in their explanation of the mortals. You wonder if you are going to have to relearn everything.

Everyone starts talking at once, their awkwardness obviously forgotten in their eagerness to learn more about you.

“I didn’t know vampires could breed!”

“Wait, you don’t drink human blood, do you?”

“Can you run as fast as them? Maybe we should race…”

“How old are you, really?”

“Are there others like you?”

“Paul’s probably beating himself up right now imprinting on someone like her –”

**“ENOUGH!”** Sam’s voice inserts itself over the chaos of the others. The boys stumble back as if the large man has hit them, guilty glints in their eyes as they swallow back the rest of their questions.

“Billy? Mind taking over?” he continues, shaking his head at the group, silencing any further interruptions. The seated man nods and meets your gaze again.

“They can be a bit rowdy sometimes. You’ll get used to it. We do need to know, however: Do you feed from humans?”

You shake your head quickly, thankful that you can provide an honest answer to this one.

“I’ve never drank from a person. When I was young, they… err… my father gave me animal blood because it was easier to procure quickly. As soon as I understood what I was, I insisted I continue the diet. I have only ever hunted animals. Tonight was the first time I ate, um, well, regular food. It seemed to go down okay, though!”

You know you’re talking too fast, but you’re nervous and you still don’t understand how these mortals know about the supernatural. None of them look shocked, in fact they act like the concept is familiar. You brave your own question.

“How do you know about vampires?”

The group begins to whisper amongst itself, speaking so quietly you almost have to strain to hear.

_“She’s an imprint, she has the right to know –”_

_“Yes, well, she’s not a typical imprint, is she?”_

_“The council should tell her…”_

_“Shouldn’t Paul tell her?”_

_“Paul doesn’t even know what to tell himself right now…”_

“Can you guys _shut up_ for once in your miserable lives?!” It’s Leah this time, breaking her silence to glower at the men. Even Sam joined in on the hushed conversation. Sue gives your shoulder a calming squeeze. You sneak another glance to see that she’s smiling. You wonder vaguely what they meant by imprint, but figure that is yet another question a different time.

“Can you trust that we will explain later?” Billy asks, his tone gentle. You nod again as he continues with his own inquiries.

“We need to know what happened to your leg. Are you in danger? Is there somebody after you?”

This question sinks you back to reality, and you feel the bitter sting of tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. You shake them away, trying, desperately to be brave. You want to tell them, you should tell them, but you’re scared they’ll send you away once they understand how much danger you could bring.

“It’s okay,” Sue cradles your name on her tongue, her hand still moving softly against your back. “You’re safe here, we promise.”

You will your leaden tongue to speak and decide the easiest course of action is to look away from the crowd. You unclasp your hands and let them drift up towards your hair. It is still braided, you realize, and crushed wildflowers are sticking haphazardly around your head. Just another way you look ridiculous, even in the new clothes. You pull a stem out and begin to speak, your voice a little squeaky from your effort to contain your grief.

“I got married yesterday…” You start, rubbing a petal from the flower between your fingers. Nobody responds, though you’re sure they are looking between each other in silent communication. “My father chose my husband, Geralt, for me from… well, he made us get married because… ah, I mean, we got married yesterday and…”

You trail off, the memory painful and raw and far too real for your taste. You can’t contain your tears any longer, they begin to march one by one from your ducts. _Stubborn little things_.

“I woke up this morning and my husband was dead,” you continue, your voice raspy now. Sue gasps and squeezes your shoulder painfully, evidently shocked by your admission. You try to ignore her, determined to get the rest of the story out before you choke in tears.

“He was murdered by another vampire… _Boris._ ” You practically snarl the name as you crush the flower under your thumb. It crumples and you let it fall to the floor with the rest of your dignity.

“I tried to kill him. I was so _angry_ , I wanted him to die. But we fell into the fire where my husband’s body burned. The flame consumed my leg, but I managed to shove him in by the head. He tried to grab me, but I was able to get away and he fell to the floor, injured. It was all I could do to escape. I grabbed a robe and my – well, I left quickly and didn’t stop to see if he had succumbed to his burns. I ran to Portland, and found Billy and Charlie using a, what was it, a staplegun? Hanging those Jacob Black posters on a nearby pole...” You trail off, braving Billy’s eyes again. He senses your reluctance and continues the story for you.

“We were about to leave, but she had some sort of fit and fell off the bench. We saw her leg and Charlie insisted we stop. I tried to keep him moving, but he’s a stubborn mule, that one.”

The group laughs in agreement, but their joy quickly tapers off with another warning look from Sam.

“I don’t understand what happened, though,” Billy continues. “It looked like some sort of seizure…”

“Can you trust that I will explain later?” you interrupt, echoing his earlier words. You don’t want them to know about the visions. It’s too complicated, and they’re still mortals, after all. You aren’t ready to spill all your secrets.

“I will hold you to it!” Billy barks, grinning for a moment before his face settles into a more somber expression. “Now, this Boris… do you think he’s still after you?”

“I’m not sure… I don’t know if he’s still alive, even… but it’s been too bright where I live for the cov – for anyone to follow me. They’d… he’d have to move at night, and I think they… he’d lose the scent once we got into Charlie’s police guard car…”

“Police guard?” The boyish-faced man speaks again, his face twisting back into that lopsided grin.

“Is that not the word for it?” you ask, genuinely curious, and the group breaks into real laughter this time. Their snickers break the rest of the tension in the room. You shrug bashfully, your face red once more. “I’ll admit that I don’t really understand much about the human, I mean, your world.”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t!” The round man this time. You wish you knew their names.

“All in good time,” Sue smiles. You realize that she has been messing with your hair while you spoke, removing the last of the flowers from the braids and untwisting each plait slowly. You relish the feel of fingers in your hair, a pleasant reminder of Calia’s own gentle work.

“I think that’s all we have for you tonight,” Billy gives you a mischievous smile, and you are certain he has begun to care for you. It’s a nice feeling, being liked. You aren’t used to it.

“What about Boris?” you ask cautiously, but he waves a hand in dismissal.

“Don’t worry about him. We’ll find him if he tries to cross into our lands. Or anyone else…” His eyes twinkle, and he turns to stare at the gaggle of boys, all of them leaning forward impatiently. “I think they want to say hello…”

The boys take his words as an opportunity to release themselves from their last semblance of decorum. They all clamber forward, trying to get in your face in their eagerness to greet you.

“I’m Quil!” the round-face man exclaims, grabbing your hand and shaking it enthusiastically. You repeat your name for him, trying not to pull away at his overeager welcome.

Another boy cuts in front of him, his friend quickly on his heels.

“Collin!” he shouts, too loud, while his friend bounces up and down next to him.

“Brady, at your service, miss.” Collin’s friend gives an over-exaggerated bow.

“Seth.” The boyish man with the lopsided grin steps forward, shaking your hand with less pressure than Quil. You’re thankful for it. “And the quiet one is my older sister, Leah.”

You smile at the raven-haired girl, grateful for the kindness she showed you earlier. She gives you a tense nod in return but does not move from her position by the sink.

“I’m Sam,” the tallest man announces. You already know his name, having heard it so many times from the others, but you nod anyway. “I’m in charge of these idiots.” He indicates the group before him, a slight smirk playing on the corner of his lips.

“Jared and Embry ran after Paul!” Seth jumps in, that lopsided smile firmly fixed on his features, “I’m sure you’ll meet _Paul_ soon enough.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and you blush, confused at the implication.

“Just wait until you meet Emily and Kim, I’m sure they’ll love you!” Quil interrupts, mirroring Seth’s grin. “And of course, you’ll have to meet Clara…” His smile softens, a wistful look in his eyes.

“Will you live forever?” Collin seems really eager to ask this question, and you decide to answer it as truthfully as possible.

“I’m not sure. I think so… I’ve been full grown for a while, but I really am just seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in October…”

“Oh, we’ll have to throw you a birthday party!” Brady jumps up and down at the thought. He seems like such a kid, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he were the youngest of the group. You narrow your eyes in thought at his suggestion. Will you still be here in October? You aren’t sure if that is even possible.

“I think,” Sue interrupts the gaggle of boys, still talking amongst themselves like over-excited school children, “our new friend ought to get some rest, don’t you? Sam, I hate to be a burden, but is it possible for her to stay with you and Emily? We don’t have a guest room here and I don’t think she should sleep on the couch with the state of her leg. I can send you with some clean towels and ointment for her to apply.”

“Of course, Sue. We’d be happy to have her.” Sam nods agreeably, but you aren’t so sure. You still don’t know if you can trust him. The feeling of being dropped on gravel still radiates in your limbs.

If Sue is asking, though, it must be safe enough. You figure you ought to start trusting the group. At least for now, you can always make a break for it if they prove to be unfriendly. Something tells you that won’t be the case, however.

Billy rolls away from your knees and you pull yourself up, cautiously, making sure you can put your full weight on both limbs. Everything seems to be working. You go to gather your robe, but it’s gone. You sweep the room with your eyes, frantic, and see your journal resting on the kitchen counter.

“I figured I’d wash your robe, dear. It looks like it has seen better days…” Sue assures you, answering the desperate swivel of your head. You nod, stumbling forward to grab the journal, pulling it eagerly to your chest. Sam waits at the door, speaking in hushed tones to Billy. As soon as you approach, they fall silent.

“Well, miss, I think I’m going to head out myself. Leah’s going to drive us. She’ll drop you and Sam off at his house, and then take me home.”

“Sure,” you agree. Your eyes are already growing heavy. You follow the group to the car, too tired to say anything else.

You reach Sam and Emily’s cottage sooner than expected. You want to drift off in the car, but their home isn’t far enough from Sue’s. You follow the large man up the steps, numb, and listen only idly as he explains your presence to another woman. It’s too dark to see her face, and you’re looking mostly at your feet.

You ask to wash in the morning. The girl agrees and leads you up a sturdy staircase and into a cozy guest room. Sam hands you a can of ointment, instructing you to apply it to your burns. He closes the door, and you listen to their footsteps fade down the hall. You set the salve on your nightstand and bury your face in the pillows of the bed. You’ll worry about your leg tomorrow.

You fall asleep to the image of the man from your vision, his eyes stealing yours and slamming you to earth with their gravity.


	16. Incredible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated F for pure fluff. Nothing scary, violent, or overtly sexual about it! Enjoy.
> 
> Much love to my beta reader, Slow_Lorax, for her fastest turnaround time EVER. She gave this to me a day after I sent it to her with plenty of time for me to edit. Unfortunately, I didn't start revisions until an hour before Sunday was actually over. Oh well, it's still Sunday in some parts of the world, so I'm going to say it's on time!
> 
> I am not 100% sure when the next chapter will be up as I am in the middle of midterms right now and haven't had as much time to write. Thanks for your patience. <3

**Chapter Sixteen - Incredible**

The rhythm in your heart is different this time. You are not filled with fear, but rather desperation. It pounds against you with every panicked breath, an ever-constant drum against your ribs. Warm air hits you in the face and tangles in your hair. The ground glides seamlessly beneath you, the same freight train you’re used to, but you hit each stride with four steps instead of two.

Should you keep running for the hills or go back? Back to the one you’re meant to love, the one you’re bound with irrevocably. You are at war with yourself. Two sides of your soul pulled apart at the seams. On one end, the ever-fierce desire to be independent, freed from the chains of another, longing for the gift of choice. The other side, the one tugging at a hook in your heart, feels settled – like the moment you met their eyes all the worries of the world fell into place and you finally found your home.

You want to scream – why now? Why them? Why would the creator pair you with someone so _unknown_? You thought they were a monster – you thought they deserved to die, but then you looked into their soul and they bound you to their heart with an overwhelming gravity.

Resistance is a pointless battle, even as you try to sprint as far into the forest as it grows, you feel your feet turning of their own accord, pulling you back to them. It has been hours since you left, and you find yourself running in circles. You’re exhausted now. There is no question – you cannot flee any longer. They call to you in their sleep and you long for them, hopeless of any victory in this war of hearts. If you must, you’ll wait on their doorstep all night. You’d wait an eternity for them.

A tiny cottage, not the one you left but the one where they’re now staying swims into your view as you finally give in, and suddenly four feet turn into two and you’re pulling on a worn pair of denim shorts without much thought. You listen for their breathing, but it’s steady as they slumber on the second level of the house. Quietly, you sit on the edge of the porch, preparing to wait until morning. The breathing above catches suddenly, and you jolt awake just as you call his name once more – _Paul_!

The house is quiet save for a soft snoring coming from the adjacent room. Sam and Emily, probably, sleeping away the events of the day. The dark room swims into view slowly. You must have only slept for a few hours. The memory of the wind in your hair caresses you – as if it encircled your whole body and not just your head. A cold chill runs up your spine and goosebumps dart across your arms, causing you to shiver violently beneath your covers.

This vision felt so _immediate_ , like you were actually moving and not fast asleep in the soft bed.

Why were you running on four limbs? Surely, even with the burn, you’re fast enough without resorting to such animalistic measures. Your arms in the dream felt funny… different, somehow. And the thoughts that raced through your head were unfamiliar, as if you were acting on instinct more than reason.

Nothing makes sense. For one who has seen the future through dreams, this vision confounds you. Perhaps a walk would help you clear your head, though you are unfamiliar with the surrounding woods. Maybe you can make loops around the house. That would certainly be a funny sight, but whatever works to steady you is worth a shot.

The chain on the lamp by your bed is cold as you tug it down, illuminating the room in soft yellow shadows. You pull yourself up from the bed and look around. Drowsiness weighed you down when you arrived at the house, and you never took a moment to properly inspect your new quarters. The walls are made of dark wood paneling, just like the rest of the cottage. A large window takes up much of the wall to your right, and droopy branches sway before it. A red roof tilts towards the ground, undoubtedly covering the large porch you walked across to get into the glass doors at the front of the house.

The room is cheerily decorated, with beading and colorful artwork and even an assortment of flowers sitting on top of a large set of drawers. Your mood softens a bit as you look at each art piece. You feel lighter here than you did in the mountain. Like the weight of the solid-rock walls crushed you a little more each day. Here, every detail is cheerful. You can happiness in a place like this.

A sizable mirror sits just behind the flowers and faces the bed where your blankets lay in a crumbled heap, as if you were twisting and turning in your sleep – in time with the movements of your four limbs. You look pale in the mirror and overly worn. Your hair stands in every direction, and the need for a bath is very apparent. Maybe you can take one after your walk.

You don’t bother finding any shoes; your bare feet are strong enough for any surface, and you know your body heat will keep you warm enough in the summer night. With one last glance at your haggard appearance, you make your way towards the door of your room and slip into the dark hall.

The route back down the stairs and towards the front door is easy enough, and you take your time, trying to memorize every detail of the bright kitchen. This too is very different than the musty caves of your mountain. Its’ darkened gloom contrasts perfectly with the natural light of Sam and Emily’s home. It feels like their house’s primary goal is to be bright and welcoming. During the day, it must be positively brilliant in this kitchen.

You aren’t paying attention to your feet as you open the glass doors, trying to close them behind you as quietly as possible. You start quickly across the porch, your eyes fixed on the nearby tree line, and almost go flying as you run into something large and electrifyingly warm. You fall forward, your leg still wobbly from the fire-damage. Something swift catches your waist steadily with a set of thick fingers pressed firmly against your bare skin. Your shirt rides up past your naval when they catch you.

“Woah there, bud, steady!” a deep voice murmurs, far closer than expected, and you jump at the intimacy of the moment. You finally see who belongs to the set of hands that caught you as he pulls himself up to his full height and helps you find your balance on the ground.

Words escape you in the moment, and you can only sputter up at him as you take in the entirety of his figure. Bare feet, a set of thick legs, denim shorts worn from use clinging too tight on his thighs, the muscles beneath them clearly pushing at the stitching. Paul wears nothing else, his carved chest prominent, each muscle defined and pronounced.

Your gaze lingers on his chest before moving up his neck, past his chin, landing briefly on his lips, and locking firmly with those brown-black eyes. The world does not fall at your feet this time, but rather, you feel held, as if his stare alone is enough to keep you grounded. The entire Alzati coven could show up in this moment, and you wouldn’t care as long as you were able to look into his eyes.

It’s a curious feeling, so unlike anything you ever felt with Geralt. With him, your defining emotion was always caution. You cautiously tried to love him because you were told to, because not being with him meant being with Boris, which is by far the most painful life you could ever live. Geralt meant safety, or so you thought, and you accepted his stare out of the instinct to survive.

This is something else. It’s unexpected in the most pleasant way. It fills you with inexplicable warmth. If this is what drowning feels like, you’d jump beneath the waves without hesitation. Just you and him and you and –

“I’m sorry about before...”

His voice interrupts your reverie, and you blink, finally able to tear your eyes away. The scene before you seems so familiar: you see the house in the same vein as your dream, and confusion slaps you across the face with sudden alarm. Did you run here in your sleep? How could that be possible if you were tucked away in bed?

You hear your name in question form. It takes multiple tries for Paul to bring you back to reality, and you gape at him, taking in his appearance once more. The shorts he wears, soft blue, are just like the ones you wore in your dream.

It takes a moment for you to put two and two together. You swallow, afraid of the question you know you must ask, but determined to ask it anyway. With one last clearing of your throat, a deep grunt, you brave the unknown.

“Did you run here? Just now?”

You expect him to look taken aback, but no emotion reads across his face as he stares at you for a second. How could you possibly explain this one? You consider the casual way the teenagers spoke to you in Sue’s kitchen. They were sarcastic and funny and full of questions. Maybe you could imitate their manner of speaking. If you’re going to stay with them for a while, you want to fit in. Maybe you could say something like this: Oh hey Paul! I just _dreamed_ that you were running through the woods on all fours. Then you came to this house and pulled on those _exact_ shorts! Isn’t that crazy?

You laugh to yourself. You’d probably _sound_ crazy to the human.

None of this makes any sense. Your head is filled with more questions than there could possibly be answers available for.

Finally, Paul speaks.

“Yes, I ran here. How did you know that?”

For a second, you search your mind for an acceptable excuse, but as soon as you try, you realize that anything short of the truth would be useless. Yet another moment that requires bravery, you suppose. You give up on sounding like anything but your currently nervous self.

“I saw you… um, well… I saw you in a dream. Running through the woods to this house. I didn’t think it was real.” Close enough. You can at least pretend that you didn’t see the whole thing _through his eyes_. Then you’d really sound crazy.

A hint of a smile plays at Paul’s lips, and you wonder if he is amused. What’s funny about the situation, you have no idea, but you can play along if need be.

“Guess the stories are true, huh?” Paul says, more to himself than you, as he speaks so softly that only your supernatural hearing can detect it.

“What stories?” you ask, truly curious. He doesn’t answer, just continues to stare you down. His silence irritates you, and you’re tempted to pout in your frustration. You suppose that two people can play this game of back-and-forth. If he’s not going to give you any answers, then you’re off the hook as well.

When he breaks his silence, you almost lose your resolve to be as unresponsive as him.

“You’re a curious little thing, aren’t you?” he observes. You notice that he is still holding onto your waist. The touch felt so natural that you hadn’t thought to shrug him off. You do so now, moving your hands down to detach his. Paul accepts this without question, bringing his arms up to link together against his chest, still watching you.

“Half-vampire, half-human – or so you say. Very curious. I didn’t know that was possible…”

“There’s a lot about me that’s impossible,” you retort. You regret your words almost immediately as amusement clearly paints itself across the man’s admittedly handsome features.

“Oh?” he teases, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. “Please enlighten me: what’s so impossible about you, bud?”

“Why do you call me bud?” you ask instead of answering his question.

“Is there something you prefer I call you?” 

Is this your new doom? The pair of you answering each question with an inquiry of your own? It seems rather obtuse, you think.

“I’m just curious where the name came from, that’s all.”

“And I’m curious, what’s so impossible about you… _bud?_ ”

This time you can’t help yourself. You let out a huff of frustration and positively glower in his direction. Your irritation seems to only encourage his bemused grin.

“Do you _ever_ answer questions?”

“Do _you_?”

Alright, he caught you. This is going to be a never-ending battle. So different than the silent compliance of Geralt. An exchange like this would never have been possible with him.

“Fair enough. Can you at least tell me why you ran away from me in the kitchen? I thought you were going to kill me.” You arch an eyebrow in curiosity.

Paul sizes you up for a moment, and then uncrosses his arms, reaching forward to take one of your hands into his own with a little hesitation. You allow the gesture only because his fingers spark a hunger in the pit of your stomach that you’ve never felt before. You wait, silently, for his response. When it comes, it surprises you.

“I was afraid,” Paul admits as he rubs your hand between both of his own. “I’m sure you felt it too. That _gravity_ when I looked into your eyes. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced, and I panicked.”

“You panicked? Why?”

He brings his fingers up to his lips, grazing your knuckle lightly. If it were anyone else, you’d pull away immediately. But something about the gesture, so surprisingly intimate in the moonlight, feels familiar and comfortable. As if his lips were meant to trail across the back of your hand, leaving searing heat in their wake.

“I wanted to kill you simply for what you are. Not because you deserve it, but because my nature demands it. Yet in that one look… that one, exhilarating look… you and I were bonded.”

“Bonded?”

“I… well, it’s hard to explain what that truly means. I don’t want to scare you with the full explanation… at least not right now. It’s a bit overwhelming, I think. Can you understand that?”

You nod without really knowing why. He seems so genuine, and something tells you he’ll explain himself soon enough. Besides, he is now moving his lips from your hand down to your wrist and you’re having a hard time concentrating on anything but his touch.

“I’m Paul, by the way, though I think you already know that by the way you were calling my name just now.” He drops your arm and offers you his hand in greeting. It’s rather impersonal considering that his lips were on your wrist just moments before. You don’t grab his fingers, your face too aflame with sudden shame.

“You heard that?” You’re incredulous, embarrassed. What a great way to properly meet – calling his name in your sleep like a lustful wench. No wonder he touched you.

“It’s why I came back from my run, to be honest. It was like a beacon, literally calling my name… _Paul, Paul, Paul!_ All in your sleep.” He’s laughing now, softly.

“You must have pretty incredible hearing to detect that all the way in the woods, _Paul_.” You can’t help but feel amused, even through your mortification. Humans are _way_ different than Calia described.

“That’s not the only thing _incredible_ about me, bud!” Real laughter this time, probably echoing up into the rafters and waking your hosts from their own dreams. You can’t help but laugh back, though, your face flush as the moment lightens. You’d ask what he means, but the implication is pretty strong. Typical.

“I guess I’ll have to wait see, huh?” you tease, and the man wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. He’s obviously still a teenager, even with his towering, overgrown frame. So very odd.

Once your mirth dies down, you realize how sleepy you actually are. You convey as much to Paul, and he nods agreeably.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says, tacking your name onto the end of his sentence. “Properly, this time. No screaming, or bursting through kitchen doors, or falling madly at each other’s feet. Can I come by in the morning?”

“Okay.” You nod, trying to suppress a yawn. Paul grins a satisfied smile at your response. You expect him to salute or something as you start towards the door, but he catches you in his wrist and pulls you towards him. His arms encircle your body, firmly, and he pulls you flush against his chest. You can hardly breathe at the proximity, everything about him overwhelms your senses. He even smells intoxicating, woodsy with a scent you don’t quite understand.

“Have a good night, bud.” Paul whispers, his breath hot against your ear as he pulls back, before leaning in resolutely to press a firm kiss against the hollow of your cheek. Before you can respond, he’s gone, leaving in his wake a certain chill and the burning spot where his lips had been moments before.

“Good night,” you whisper to the empty air, before turning towards the door and making your way, numbly, through the house and into the tousled bed once more.

A good night, indeed. Strange excitement fills your heart as you drift to sleep.


End file.
